Crash and Burn
by Gutterbunny
Summary: *Rewritten and nearly over!* Confusing, nearly soap-operatic fic in which our beloved Hogwarts students make no effort to control their hormones. Trouble ensues: hearts are broken, egos are deflated or inflated, many strange relationships are forged.
1. Chapter I

Author's note:  
  
The first handful of chapters in Crash and Burn here are not the original versions. I rewrote the roughly the first half of the fic because, when I read it a month or so ago, it seemed to be borderline plebey, which is not exactly what I wanted.  
  
Anyway: read and enjoy, hopefully :)  
  
XoX Gutterbunny  
  
* * *  
  
Draco's first thoughts, after waking that morning, were of Harry Potter and the best way to seduce him.  
  
Not because he had a "thing" for Harry Potter, no matter how many spiteful snubbed-by-Draco students hinted at that. Not because he was currently single and wanted to preserve his image as a playboy. Not even because he was desperately horny.  
  
He just had nothing else to do.  
  
Why not spend his free time baiting Potter, at least until something better came up?  
  
Draco could see them, marching in his mind's eye : glossy technicolour photographs of Harry and he at various social events - dances, balls, birthday parties. He knew that he would get some sadistic pleasure out of making Potter fall off his do-gooder cloud and come crashing down at Draco's feet. It would be wonderful to feel so empowered - to know that all he had to do was delve deeply enough inside Potter's skin, get the boy to need Draco's omnipresence - get him, in short, addicted to Draco - and Draco could destroy him by just stepping away from him.  
  
Potter, so innocent and green-eyed and good - so good that it made Draco want to hurl and rip the world to pieces. He would make an ideal victim. no, not victim, prey. It would be as easy as taking a candy from a baby. The fact that Draco wasn't certain of Potter's sexual orientation wasn't even a possible hindrance. He was certain, in that arrogant way of his that fascinated some people and disgusted others, that Potter wouldn't be able to resist him. Nobody could. You could defeat Voldemort five times in a row, but you couldn't say no when Draco Malfoy asked you out.  
  
Once they got together, Draco would escape the multitude of rumours flying about. "He could have anybody in the whole bloody school," Millicent Bulstrode was said to have whispered to Pansy Parkinson, "no, in the whole wizarding world. So isn't it. weird. that he's got no girlfriend or boyfriend?"  
  
And Pansy, still bitter with Draco for having unceremoniously dumped her in fifth year, had replied, "He doesn't think anyone is good enough for him. That's his problem. That boy will die in some dirty Muggle alley from an overdose!"  
  
Pansy was right about the first part; Draco did think himself better than everybody else. But the second statement was highly unlikely. There was no way in hell Draco would ever find himself in a dirty Muggle alley.  
  
Once he had thought it out, and told himself that it would be a highly profitable venture, Draco showered quickly, found his wand, and performed various spells to soften his skin - though why he thought his skin needed it will forever remain a mystery. He decided agaist brushing his hair, and dressed himself all in black, and sashayed out the door after checking that he had his breath mints with him (one never knew when surprise snogging might occur, and it's always best to be prepared). Stopping to look at his reflection in a window, he thought, "Ready for the attack. Go me!"  
  
* * *  
  
Draco walked throughout the castle twice, found out that Potter was not on the Quidditch pitch, in the Great Hall, or in any of the broom closets. Searching those had been a painful experience, because a fourth-year Hufflepuff, very angry at being disturbed just when her boyfriend's hand had began wandering underneath her shirt, had punched Draco in the stomach not once but twice. After that Draco began to have second thoughts, and wondered whether any sort of relationship with Potter was worth having a fat girl attack him like that. He was ready to give up on the whole venture, when the Malfoy stubbornness kicked in, and he gritted his teeth and began to think.  
  
After much cogitation, he came to the conclusion that the elusive Gryffindor had to be in the library. With Granger, doubtlessly, because he wasn't the type to go read books of his own accord. The buck-toothed egghead's presence would make things more difficult - Draco didn't want her to be privy to the conversation, and he knew that Potter wouldn't either; but he'd find a way to get rid of her.  
  
Potter was indeed in the library, but alone, and with a book the size of a small calf on the table before him. Perhaps I underestimated him, thought Draco. Perhaps he does know how to read. The boy was obviously struggling not to fall asleep and didn't notice Draco sneaking up on him.  
  
"Potter," Draco said quietly, letting his breath wash over the nape of Potter's neck. "Just the man I was looking for."  
  
Harry jumped, and a blush spread like wildfire over his face when he saw who had spoken. "M-malfoy," he acknowledged weakly.  
  
"Don't stutter," ordered Draco severely. Potter should be fall-on-your- knees grateful for this occasion to have a conversation with a Malfoy - especially since Draco wanted to proposition him - and should have enough respect for the occasion to stop himself from tripping over his syllables.  
  
"S-sorry."  
  
"What did I just say?"  
  
"I. er. Bug off, Malfoy. I'm. busy." Harry motioned vaguely toward his book.  
  
"Don't play with me, Potter. As if I'd be stupid enough to believe that you'd be here reading a book of that size - especially The Reproduction Cycle of Asian Nifflers.- of your own free will. What are you doing this Saturday?"  
  
"Um. What?!" Harry looked dumbfounded, as though a zevra had just spoke, or Draco had sprouted a second head.  
  
"Thick, aren't you?" said Draco with disgust. "I feel like I am talking to a backwards child. I said: what are you doing this Saturday?"  
  
"Why on earth do you want to know?"  
  
"Because, you fool, I am asking you out." Draco slapped the table for emphasis, and tried not to flinch at the pain.  
  
If Harry had looked surprised before, it was nothing compared to the shocked look in his eyes now. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and made several broken sounds that did not make it past his lips. After some seconds had flown by he realized that Draco expected him to make some sort of reply, and croaked, "I have plans."  
  
Draco's eyes widened, then narrowed. He glared at Harry, and clenched his fists, looking extraordinarily like a basilisk with bed-head. How dare Potter say he had plans? How dare he even think of refusing Draco Malfoy? This sort of thing had never happened before, as people tended to throw themselves at Draco's feet. It made Draco's blood boil to think that he had been rejected by a midget with bad hair. He was about to lunge at Potter, to slap him perhaps, or at least box his ears, but he stopped himself just in time. Must remain calm. Cool. Composed. Catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and all that.  
  
Instead of jumping on Potter and knocking his lights out, Draco leaned forward and whispered, "Nothing you're doing can possibly be so great that it would justify you passing up a date with me. You do know that?"  
  
"Um. » Harry tried to keep his face blank, but he blushed again, confirming Draco's suspicious than Potter had a small crush on him. "Y-yes, Malfoy."  
  
"Well, then?"  
  
Harry sighed deeply, and rubbed his eyes, as though he thought doing so would make Draco and his awkward questions disappear. "Why me, Malfoy?"  
  
"Because, Potter, I thought about it long and hard, " Draco drawled, nearly chortling at the way Harry blushed at the words 'long and hard' - "and I decided you're the only one who's worthy of me. The Malfoy heir and the Boy Who Lived. You must admit that sounds nice."  
  
"Um. Okay. What about, er, Pansy?"  
  
"Please," said Draco simply. "Have you taken a good look at her lately? The girl looks like a constipated camel."  
  
Harry nearly laughed. "Regardless. I, uh, told you. I have. plans."  
  
"And those plans are?."  
  
"I'm. going to H-Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione."  
  
"Potter, godammit, don't stutter!"  
  
"I'll stutter if I want to, Malfoy."  
  
"Hogsmeade can wait," Draco said. He trailed his finger up and down Harry's forearm. Victory was near. He could smell it. Potter was getting weak; it was obvious by the pallor of his skin, his glazed eyes. He wanted to accept Draco's offer, but he was fighting that desire - likely his macho Gryffindor side stereotyping 'evil' Slytherins. He's not bad-looking, Draco thought, but he does nothing to improve his looks. Doesn't he realize that he desperately needs a haircut? "Besides," he added, "Grange-girl and the Weasel will be delighted to go to Hogsmeade alone. Perhaps they'll have a little tonguing session in the Shrieking Shack. Did you ever think that those shrieks might be caused by intense physical pleasure?"  
  
Harry's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He gave a little sigh. "If I go out with you, will you leave me alone?"  
  
"No."  
  
"But."  
  
"Shut up, Potter."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I'm trying to kiss you, you idiot," Draco snapped, losing all remaining shreds of his patience. As quickly and as fluidly as a striking panther, he moved his hand sneaked around Harry's neck and roughly pulled him closer; His lips sealed the unsuspecting mouth, cutting off Harry's air supply.  
  
Harry's instinct was to pull away and swallow air, precious air. He looked like a fish thrown on land. "Gaaack!"  
  
"You idiot. You ruined it."  
  
"You don't just. do that."  
  
"Yes, I do. I'm a Malfoy."  
  
And Harry had no reply for that, because if he'd learned a single thing after seven years at Hogwarts, it was that one did not tell a Malfoy what they could and could not do unless one was a Malfoy. It just wasn't done, and Harry had no intention of breaking another unwritten law of the wizarding world. Saying 'no' to Draco was playing with fire already; he didn't want to get burned.  
  
"All right. You win."  
  
A grin twisted Draco's lips. "I always do," he said imperiously. "It's about time you learned that, Potter."  
  
* * *  
  
Draco's idea of a date apparently consisted of locking Harry and himself inside his dormitory' snogging Harry until the boy was quite dizzy. His head was spinning and pounding, he felt as though he was on a particularly fast roller-coaster, he felt sick, he was going to vomit if this didn't stop, he needed air.  
  
Of course he felt pleasure, but it weighed little in the balance of how woozy he felt, and how he could hear Hermione and Ron in his head, gasping at what he was doing. He broke away, gulping in mouthfuls of air.  
  
"Damn, Potter." Draco spat, angry and frustrated - never a good combination, particularly in him.  
  
"Well, excuse me," Harry shot back, "You have a mouth like a black hole - everything gets sucked in. It felt like you were trying to swallow my lungs. I couldn't breathe. What was I supposed to do?"  
  
"Grin and bear it," snapped Draco. He narrowed his eyes, and his hands, which had dropped from Harry's neck to his sides, clenched into fists. "There must be something wrong with you, Potter. Nobody in the world got to make out with a Malfoy and didn't like it."  
  
"There is something wrong with me!" Harry agreed sarcastically. "Some horrible mental disease that convinced me that I'm gay and made me agreed to spend quality time with you. This'll be all over Witch Weekly by tomorrow and I'll never be able to look anyone in the eye again."  
  
"On the contrary," Draco said. "It'll add to your reputation, and damage mine. Everyone will be congratulating you on managing to score a date with me, but they'll say, 'I thought Draco Malfoy had standards. Where did they go?'"  
  
"Call this a date?" said Harry. "We're locked in a filthy, empty dungeon."  
  
"Which much resembles the interior of your brain."  
  
Harry made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. "I don't need this," he snapped. "Fuck you, Malfoy."  
  
"Oh yes, I'm sure you want to do that, Potter. Regardless. You don't need this, but you want it, don't you," purred Draco. And soon you'll need it too, if things go according to plan, he added to himself.  
  
Harry glared, at loss for a decent comeback. He made a mental note to ask Dean Thomas what he would say in such a situation - without revealing much about his situation. How could one have a decent conversation with a person who changed positions almost as often as he shifted above his pillows? Couple Draco's ten-speed emotions with the fact that his eyes screened what he was really thinking, and what did you get?  
  
Someone who was impossible to talk to, that's what.  
  
"That's why you agreed to cancel your plans and go out with me in the first place," continued Draco, unperturbed by Harry's dumbfounded look. "You secretly want me, badly. In fact, you're prolly been trying to get in my pants for years." He nodded knowingly, and smirked, and settled his chin above the tips of his steepled fingers.  
  
"And you know this how, exactly?" Harry managed  
  
"Oh, it happens to everyone. Haven't you ever noticed that nobody's indifferent to me? People either love me or they hate me - and in the latter case, they hate me because they want to be me."  
  
And he was right, strangely enough - Harry couldn't count the number of times he'd longed to slip one of his hairs in a vial of Polyjuice Potion. He'd envied Draco because he had an impressive social status, and money, and a body to kill for - and parents. Harry envied everyone with parents. Even crazy, evil ones, as Lucius and Narcissa were rumoured to be, were better than dead ones.  
  
"Oh, don't stare at me too long. You'll be babbling like an arse for days - very unattractive." Draco smiled cheerfully.  
  
"Modest as always, Malfoy," Harry remarked tiredly, still following his own train of thoughts. Draco was right when he said that Harry wanted to be him - but did Harry really want him? Harry couldn't remember ever thinking of him that way before. actually, he could, but he had forgotten it until then: two years before, neither he nor Ron could sleep, and they stayed up and whispered about anything and everything, for hours. Ron had said, "Malfoy is a fecking prat," and Harry had pondered that, and added softly: "But he's beautiful."  
  
Ron had not replied, and they had both buried the memory, exiling it from their heads.  
  
Draco spoke again, and Harry disembarked from his train of thoughts.  
  
"Malfoys don't need to be modest, Harry. The Malfoy family motto is, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, God made me pretty, but what the fuck happened to you?'. By the way, call me Draco."  
  
"All right - Draco," said Harry.  
  
"I was just joking," said Draco.  
  
"Back to Malfoy, then?"  
  
"No, I mean about the motto. It's actually something in Latin. but who cares?"  
  
"My feelings exactly," snorted Harry.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione knew something was up. So little got past the underestimated child prodigy. She had realized all was not well with Harry when he'd started returning to the common room hours after the end of classes, or of dinner. She knew he wasn't spending that time in the library, because his intelligence didn't seem to be muchly emproved. She was dying to know his secret.  
  
And since she couldn't just ask him directly, she decided to question him a bit every day. Piece by piece, she'd put it together and solve the mystery.  
  
"Harry!" she cried that night, when the Fat Lady finally swung open. "Harry, where were you? We were supposed to start working on our History of Magic Project together!"  
  
That was a lie; there was no History of Magic project, but she didn't expect him to remember that.  
  
"Uh." went Harry. ""Quidditch practice!"  
  
Hermione narrowed her eyes. The Gryffindor team didn't have Quidditch practice on Thursdays, proof being that if they did, Ron, team captain, wouldn't be standing in the warmest corner of the common room playing chess with Seamus Finnigan.  
  
"Honestly, Harrry," snorted Dean from his chair.  
  
"Come on. How stupid do you think I am, Harry?" said Hermione. She almost smiled at the look of shock and surprise on his face, and added, "I know the House Quidditch team's schedule by heart. You have two days off a week and today happens to be one of them."  
  
The blood drained out of Harry's face. "I. Herm, I."  
  
"And what is Ron doing there -" she pointed at the redhead - "if you have Quidditch practice?"  
  
"Ah. RON!" yelled Harry, "you missed Quidditch practice, idiot!"  
  
Seamus turned around, mischievous, but mainly silly in his three-sizes- too- big Kiss me I'm Irish T-shirt. "Harry, you idiot," he said, "if you've been in a broom closet all this time, just come out and say it!"  
  
"Yeah, come out.. of the closet!" added Ron, nearly knocking over the chessboard as he laughed. Harry flushed and looked quite dazed, which made Seamus laugh too; and there was something about Seamus' laughter that made everyone else join in. Seconds later, the room was filled with shrill howls of mirth.  
  
Hermione tsked and left the room.  
  
* * *  
  
TBC, of course. 


	2. Chapter II

This is the rewritten version, everyone - rewritten and, unless my brain fails me, muchly improved. This is actually the third and fourth chapter - I decided they were too short on their own.  
  
* * *  
  
"We'll have to find another excuse for snogging," Harry panted groggily. He had a painful stitch in his side - like an arrow driving beneath his ribs - because he had run from Gryffindor Tower to the Slytherin Dungeons without stopping for breath. He had never known he could run that fast, but apparently thinking of Draco had given him wings. " 'Quidditch practice' isn't cutting it anymore. Nothing gets past Hermione."  
  
"It was quite stupid of you, saying that without even stopping to think whether or not you actually had practice," agreed Draco with a sneer. He was leaning casually against a stone wall, inspecting his fingernails - or as Harry called them, claws, because they sometimes dug holes in his robes, during their intense make-out sessions. .  
  
"I forgot," Harry said. "It happens to everyone."  
  
"You forgot? You've been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for seven years now and you still don't know when you have practice? Shockingly pathetic, Potter."  
  
"Oh, shove off," snapped Harry, curling his fists instinctively in his robe pockets.  
  
Draco made no reply - he took out a tiny jade-handled pocketknife and ran its silver blade along the sides of his fingers, just lightly enough to tickle his skin. Harry had nothing to say, and he stood there feeling stupid, until the silence became unbearab-le and he began to whistle. The sound - a surprisingly melodious one - seemed to tug Draco out of a daydream. His head snapped up, and he said: "Harry, Harry, Harry - " sounding very much like a Lockhart clone - "I've noticed that you've never taken me out to dinner."  
  
Harry thought about that, about what it would be like to take Draco out in Hogsmeade. He would certainly cause a sensation if he was seen sharing a meal with his nemesis. But pleasant as the thought seemed, he was up to his neck in undone homework, and thinking of the Witch Weekly articles that such an outing would generate was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. "D'you think you deserve to be taken to dinner?" he asked.  
  
"Is the Pope a Catholic?" answered Draco.  
  
There was no way out of this, or if there was, Harry couldn't see it, and either way it wasn't worth fighting over. "Fine, Draco, I'll take you to a nice restaurant in Hogsmeade," he conceded.  
  
Draco snorted. "I'll pick the place, thank you very much. Knwoing you, it would be a fish-and-chips place."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with fish and chips," Harry said staunchly.  
  
"I'm a vegetarian," Draco declared, with the air of one giving out state secrets. "So I don't eat fish and chips, Potter."  
  
"You could eat the chips," Harry pointed out helpfully.  
  
Draco sniffled, and made a face. "Those chips are practically bathing in fat," he said. "I wouldn't be caught dead with them in my mouth. Although, to be fair, after having had your tongue in it."  
  
Harry turned red. He was used to Draco insulting him; how many cruel words had Draco not flung at him, like sharp stones at a leper, for the past seven years? But this was far more personal, suddenly, after all the times the two had met each other in dark, dank room closets, fingers digging into the other's skin, moaned, half-formed syllables filling the air, and a trail of clumsy butterfly kisses fluttering down Draco's neck - Harry blinked hard. He was been getting carried away.  
  
"You can't complain," he said, his voice smooth, "seeing as you're the one who wanted my tongue in your mouth in the first place."  
  
"As I recall, you were not at all opposed to the idea," Draco retorted. He snapped his pocketknife shut and dropped it into his pocket. "In fact, it seemed to excite you considerably."  
  
"Yeah, but. oh, let's not argue," said Harry, deflated by the absence of a good comeback inside his head.  
  
"Fine," said Draco. "Tomorrow, at eight-thirty, near the portrait of Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."  
  
Draco, Harry reflected, was the only person in Hogwarts who ever called Nearly Headless Nick by his full name. He was about to turn around and tell him so - but Draco was already gone.  
  
* * *  
  
That night, while she was slowly undoing her long, think braid, Hermione's eyes filled with tears. They streaked down her cheeks, clouding her vision, until she could only see Harry, entering the common room, saying "Quidditch practice". She ran the hairbrush through her curly mane very slowly, as though it was causing her a great deal of pain. It wasn't. The images dancing through her head were hurting her, imagines of Harry and some girl - the thought that it might be a boy did not occur to her - sneaking around in dark hallways, under Harry's invisibility cloak, inside broom closets. Quidditch practice quidditch practice quidditch practice - quidditch practice, my ass! She quickly set the brush on her vanity table, and closed her eyes, blocking out the world.  
  
She wondered why the thought of Harry having a girlfriend upset her so much. She had never thought that she had a crush on him, or loved him other than in a friendly way. Sure, once or twice, during a boring History of Magic class, she had stared at the back of his neck and fantasized about kissing him, and onc#e she had dreamt about the two of them making love, and had woken up sweaty and disturbed. She had come to the conclusion, a long time ago, that no female could spend as much time around Harry Potter as she had, and not fall a bit in love with him. But since her tiny crush tiny crush was easy to ignore, and not an obsession like Ginny's, and since all the teenage psychology books she had consulted had told her that that was perfectly normal, she could safely ignore it.  
  
Besides, it was hypocritical of her to be angry at Harry for hiding a relationship when she herself had been dating a boy and hadn't told anybody about it.  
  
Terry Boot of Ravenclaw, Head Boy. Perfect match, since she was Head Girl. It happened every year, the two Heads going out, and that was why Hermione hadn't said anything - she didn't want anyone to tell her that it wouldn't last, that they were subconsciously following tradition, because she was convinced it wouldn't be true. Not in their case.  
  
You're jealous, Hermione, a little voice - of Reason? - hissed in her ear.  
  
Am not, Hermione stubbornly thought. In fact, it's not so much the fact that he's seeing someone, it's that he hasn't told me. And this was very nearly true; she had always seen herself as an open, broad-minded person, and had always wanted her friends to know that they could tell her anything and she would understand, so for her best friend to not want to tell her something as silly as "Hey, I have a girlfriend" stung. A lot.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry waited, pressed against a wall, his fingers kneading the tense muscles at the back of his neck. His other hand, hidden in his pocket, played with his watch. Draco was late. But Draco was never late, the Malfoy family's punctuality being something that he had bragged about so often that his exact words were engraved in Harry's mind. Always where we need to be, when we need to be. perfect timing, perfect timing, perfect timing.  
  
Had something happened to him? Something. bad?  
  
The very thing seemed unlikely. Draco was invulnerable, perfect, indestructible, nothing could possibly try to hurt him and succeed.  
  
So then, where was he?  
  
Harry checked his watch with a sigh: 8:32. Two minutes late. Then it occurred to him to wonder whether he had been had. Maybe Draco had just been stringing him along, like Harry had thought at first. But, like everyone, he had fallen for the Slytherin's charm, and became a Malfoy victim among so many others. Harry fought tears at the thought. Six days had been enough for him to fall in love with the boy.  
  
But still. Likely Malfoy - nervously, he switched back to Draco's last name in his thoughts - maybe Malfoy had planted magic buttonhole cameras somewhere - maybe in Nick's portrait's eyes, that would explain why they looked like they were moving a while ago - maybe later he would have a good laugh over the tapes with his Slytherin buddies. "Look at Potter, who actually showed up, and who's still waiting for me even though I'm two whole minutes late. And he's looking all lost like a dog without his master. Ha! He really fell for it."  
  
"Harry! Long time no talk. I'm glad to see you. The most absurd rumors floating around.. You and Draco Malfoy?"  
  
Harry jumped. When at first he had heard a voice, he had assumed it was Draco, and had relaxed; but this was not Draco's slow, mocking drawl, and Harry's shoulders went tense again. He turned around; Nearly Headless Nick had popped out of his own portrait, and was hovering a few inches off the ground, watching Harry with a fatherly look.  
  
"Uh. hi, Nick," stammered Harry.  
  
"I was hoping you could clarify - oh, hell. Please confirm the rumors, Harry," Nick said, a pleading tone in his voice.  
  
"I.. Confirm?!"  
  
"Malfoys are the most delightful partners imaginable," Nick explained avidly. "Well, perhaps not delightful, but certainly interesting. Why, I remember, in my youth - long ago, I fear - I escorted a young damsel of the name Lucrezia Malfoy to the theater. Quite the interesting companion, Lucrezia. I would have made her my wife had I not learned that she was a man-eater."  
  
"A.. what?!"  
  
"A cannibal. Word had it that she ate men who did not. come up to her standards. I never found out if that was true, but I decided not to wait and see."  
  
"Well." Harry pondered what to say. "Me and Draco. Draco and I, I mean -"  
  
"You're waiting for him right now, aren't you?"  
  
"... Yes."  
  
"I thought so. My warmest congratulations, Harry. You must have made quite the impression on young Malfoy, or he wouldn't have sent you a second glance." And with those words of wisdom, Nick faded, then disappeared.  
  
And then it was eight-forty two.  
  
"I'm glad to see you're actually here. I thought you'd either be late or forget about me, irresponsible as you always are. But you're here ; I'm pleased."  
  
This was Draco's silky voice; the ironic tones felt like music to Harry's ears. "I'm pleased," Draco had said. He had, for the first time as far as he knew, pleased the ice statue that was Draco Malfoy.  
  
"You're late," Harry said lamely, the words echoing accusingly in the empty hallway.  
  
A smile curled the edges of the blonde's lips. "My hair," he said, "took longer than expected to dry. Believe me, Harry, looking as stunning as I do is sometimes a pain. Thought, for the most part, it is a gift." And he looked so solemn and weird that Harry felt like replying, "Yes, Obi-wan." But instead he said "Shut up," Harry said affectionately. He struggled to control his emotions, not wanting the other boy to know how deeply he cared for him.  
  
"Right. How about dinner?"  
  
Harry nearly gasped. Another surprise! "Right", Draco had said. Submissive for once! Harry decided to take advantage of this pleasant twist, and said, "I want to go somewhere where I can eat a good, juicy rib-steak." He watched the blood drain out of Draco's face.  
  
"Disgusting, Harry. Did you not think of the poor cow that died for that rib-steak? It had a face, it had a name, once upon a time. "  
  
"Oh, come on, Draco, if I don't eat it someone else will."  
  
"Murderer!" Draco spat angrily.  
  
"Why are you a vegetarian in the first place?" Harry demanded.  
  
"I taste better without all those nasty toxins in me," Draco answered with an impish grin. "But. you've never tasted Malfoy, have you?"  
  
Harry blushed furiously, his mouth opening and closing.  
  
"I assure you," Draco went on, "I come with my own silver platter."  
  
"I thought you'd come with me," Harry mused. Draco stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, partly shocked and partly amused.  
  
"Your first-ever dirty thought, Potter. Bravo."  
  
"Right," Harry said. "How about dinner?"  
  
* * *  
  
Dinner that night was very quiet for the two young men sitting across one another at a candlelit table in Le Restaurant Legume - Draco had insisted on candles, and Harry had complied, although in the dim light he couldn't see Draco so well. Draco daintily plucked the olives from his Greek salad, and swallowed them, the juice trickling down his chin. Harry stared, mesmerized, as Draco's tongue licked the juice and returned to the red haven of Draco's mouth. Harry then remembered to eat, and tore his eyes away from his date long enough to blindly chomp on the croutons in his Caesar salad.  
  
"Hey, I just thought of something," he said suddenly. "It's been scientifically proven than vegetables feel pain. How do you know that tomato wasn't screaming inside when they chopped her up?"  
  
"Scientifically proven by Muggles," said Draco, but he paled a bit.  
  
"What's wrong with Muggles?" asked Harry defensively.  
  
"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."  
  
"You're acting like a child," Harry accused.  
  
"Whereas you always behave so maturely," scoffed Draco.  
  
Harry pouted and turned his attention back to his plate. Draco looked at him, steadily and somewhat indulgently, as one would regard a person whom one has loved for a long time. "You look nice tonight," he said proudly.  
  
Harry feigned a disbelieving gasp. "Draco!" he said. "Did you just compliment me on my looks? You? What happened to your 'death to Potter and Muggles, long live Snape' attitude?"  
  
"I don't know," said Draco with surprise. "It just sort of - disappeared, I guess."  
  
"Either way, you need me," said Harry. "If you love me or hate me, you need me. To kiss or hit - either way."  
  
"Nobody fulfills my needs like you do," smirked Draco, and it was true, kissing Harry was a surprisingly pleasant experience, although sometimes he did wish Harry would stop being such a prude and let him go further.  
  
Harry blushed bright pink, an his eyes turned a paler shade of green, like a leaf-bud in the spring.  
  
"I didn't really want to go out for dinner," Draco went on. "I could, after all, have eaten at Hogwarts. But. you understand."  
  
Harry understood. Draco needed to be reassured that his charms had worked; that Harry wasn't indifferent to him; that he wasn't in it just for the exceptional snogging; that he didn't mind to be seen with Draco in public - although, to be honest, who would?  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Come to think of it, I'm not so hungry... if you get my drift."  
  
"I do." "Let's go, then."  
  
"Let's," said Harry decidedly.  
  
Their chairs scraped across the floor as they got up.  
  
* * *  
  
"Mm."  
  
"Mm. oh gods - "  
  
"You taste so good," Harry whispered huskily, his fingers trailing languidly down Draco's sides, very warm and eager.  
  
"I know," Draco answered, but not in the usual bragging tones; he sounded as though he was amazed of his own hidden talents, of the dexterity of his fingers as they tousled Harry's already-mussed hair. "So do you," he added modestly, thoroughly enjoying the heat of Harry's body against his. He couldn't feel the cold stones that made up the wall he was pinned on.  
  
"Why, thank you," said Harry between kisses.  
  
"Mm." Draco's arms snaked around Harry's toned body, and he pressed up against him, desperately seeking warmth. He revelled in the kiss; Harry revelled in Draco's delightful little moans of pleasure.  
  
"I love you," he whispered, pessing his body to Draco's #until not even air came between them. Draco cupped Harry's face, his hands very cold but getting warmer by the second.  
  
Change of heart much? Draco thought with a smile that Harry didn't notice. Less than ten days ago you hated my guts. Such is my talent.  
  
But he had to say them; the four little words that he knew would make Harry's day; he had to speak the truth, they were burning his tongue, pressing against his teeth like rebellious minions.  
  
"I love you too," he answered lightly, before returning to nibbling Harry's lower lip.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione rounded a corner, slightly out of breath. She was trying to get to the library as quickly as possible, to return Dragons: Not Just for Trousers, and to borrow Is Minotaur: A Myth? before Terry got his hands on it - they were constantly competing for the latest, thickest books, which Hermione thought very cute, although she was aware that most other people would gag and roll their eyes if they knew.  
  
As she approached the staircase that led to the library, clutching the book to her chest, she heard moaning - most likely coming from directly beneath the stairs. She was suddenly possessed by the urge to lean over the stairwell and see who it was. She grinned wickedly in the semi-darkness, her repressed girlie-gossip side starting stir. If it's anyone I know, I could. blackmail them with this information, she said to herself, and then chided herself for that thought. Blackmail is something Lavender Brown would do, not me. Blackmail's beneath me. But she couldn't help taking a step forwards and gripping the rail. She arched her neck, trying to see.  
  
There was nobody there.  
  
Hermione frowner and rubbed her eyes, and took another look.  
  
Still nobody, but distinct low groans could be heard. There was a soft hissing noise, as of someone breathing out through their teeth. Convinced that her eyes had been damaged from too much reading in candlelight, Hermione pulled out her wand. "Oculis!" she whispered, as quietly as she could. Then she leaned down again.  
  
The spot beneath the stairs was still deserted, but Hermione heard a voice say, "God, you're going to kill me one day." The disembodied whisper made chills run down her back. The voice was somewhat familiar. she couldn't quite place it, but she had heard it before.  
  
Incidentally, at that moment, as he locked his arm around Draco's back, Harry dropped his Invisibility Cloak. It slithered down Draco's shoulders and down to the floor, looking like a pool of liquid light. Unaware that they were perfectly visaible, the two boys went on kissing - by this point, Draco's hand was on Harry's chest, beneath his shirt; he could feel Harry's heartbeat against his palm.  
  
And just twenty steps above them, Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth. She had to bite down on her fingers to keep from screaming. There was no mistaking who the two were, she had seen the lighting scar. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She seemed to be rooted to the ground, and only when she heard Harry say throatily, "You're wonderful," did she react.  
  
Even though it was childish, even though it would only make things worse - even though it made no sense, Hermione brought her arm forward and threw hher library book toward them. She didn't stop to see if it had hit its target.  
  
She spun around and ran.  
  
* * *  
  
Later, standing in the small bathroom that she had all to herself - yet another advantage to being Head Girl - Hermione tried to see herself in the steam-covered mirror. She had come to shower, but she found herself unable for a reason she could not comprehend. The hot water was still running, but she made no move but turn it off. Raising a world-weary finger, she traced a circle though the fog on the looking glass to see her reflection.  
  
Brown eyes.  
  
Frizzy hair - it could usually be tamed to curl or wave, but it always curled when humid - braided, hanging down her back.  
  
Small nose - nothing like Ron's.  
  
Small mouth.  
  
Pale cheeks.  
  
She was suddenly overcome with hatred towards that one braid of hers. She was the only seventh-year with such a ridiculous hairstyle, save a few Hufflepuffs and one lone Ravenclaw; the other girls let their hair loose, or styled it in elegant chignons, or preppy ponytails and bobs. Never braids.  
  
Maybe that was the reason Harry had walked past her instead of putting her on the list of potential girlfriends. Maybe that was why he'd turned towards Malfoy instead; she'd never seen him with braids. Hermione's thoughts continued in that vein for quite a while, despite the fact that she knew she was being completely ridiculous. She kept wondering what her life would be like now if she and Harry had been boyfriend and girlfriend in fifth year, when she'd wanted him in that way. She had been in love with him then, and maybe she still would be if he'd bothered looking at her twice. Perhaps they'd be mad about each other, living the Romance of the Century, making Witch Weekly headlines every other day.  
  
She seized the scissors lying on the small vanity - a gift from Lavender, who had insisted that she have it - in one hand, and her fat braid in the other.  
  
Snip.  
  
Snap.  
  
A puddle of reddish-brown tresses fell at her feet. Gone was the braid. But she kept on cutting - her one-waist-length hair now came up to her chin, unevenly. By now the steam had gone. She looked up at herself, thinking that she looked very strange without all the hair to frame her face. This new coiffure seemed to make her eyes bigger and her face more narrow. The effect was striking. Different. I look so different. This is not me. This is a girl Harry Potter could fall in love with, if he wasn't too busy fucking Malfoy to see me.  
  
But...  
  
Terry.  
  
He sprung into her mind unexpectedly, like a slap in the face when one was expecting a kiss; she had been thinking solely of Harry and her hair until that point. But now she flinched inwardly at the thought of her boyfriend, who loved her, and how she was nearly planning to two-time him with this desire to get Harry the athletic midget to love her like that.  
  
"Oh God," she muttered, hiding her face in her hands - she couldn't even look herself in the eye now. And Terry had especially loved her hair; he incessantly played with it when they were together, twirling it around his fingers, pulling the strands lightly to stretch them out, then letting go to let them curl back again. "Like an auburn waterfall," he'd said, "don't ever cut it off, Hermione. Let it grow. Your hair is so beautiful." The sweetest thing a member of the opposite sex had ever said to her; the words rang crystal-clear in her ears. He had such a way of speaking, intense but calm all at once; his words seemed grandiose and some people thought he overdid it with the big "dictionary words" but they seemed so simple and - most of all - true to her. He was so sincere, his honesty was written on his face like a script.  
  
What had she done?  
  
And for a boy who'd never noticed her and never would now that he was a couple with Draco?  
  
Hermione cursed her idiocy.  
  
* * *  
  
Draco's storm-gray eyes met Harry's jade ones in a desperate battle of wills.  
  
"Yes," said Draco.  
  
"No," sighed Harry.  
  
"Yes." Stubbornly, Draco narrowed his eyes. Draco's eyes, Harry noted, changed colors. Last night they'd been a soft, tired-looking gray, like storm-clouds that had poured their rain down onto the world and were now impatient to rest. Sometimes they were silverish, dreamy - and on rare occasions they reflected other colors: blues, greens, and reddish hues blended and made his orbs look like a Monet watercolor. Right now they so closely resembled steel, and were so cold, that Harry gulped. He looks like he could kill me if he didn't get his way. Steel. Axes are made from steel. Murderers. Axe-murderers.  
  
"Draco." Harry spoke patiently, sounding as though he was explaining a complex notion to one with an IQ of six. "I'm sorry, Draco, but I can't go to clubbing with you in Hogsmeade tonight. I have a feeling that we wouldn't allowed in, first of all - and I have two rolls of parchment on Thessa the Terrible's minions rebelling - for tomorrow, and you know Binns doesn't buy cheap excuses."  
  
"So, homework is more important than me?" Draco said incredulously.  
  
"No, but... Damn, Draco, don't look at me like that! I don't want to have to repeat my seventh year."  
  
"How dare you do this to me. And with Valentine's Day coming up too."  
  
Harry's eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about that... Valentine's Day was ranked among the other Hideously Disgusting things he'd encoutered - such as Voldemort, Flobberworms, and a house-elf drunk on Butterbeer - so naturally he hadn't given it any thought.  
  
"Stupid, pathetic celebration," he grumbled. "Excuse to pig out on chocolates. It's not even a real holiday, it was just invented so that the merchants would make a killing off fuzzy pink heart-shaped pillows. Disgusts me. What about it?"  
  
Now Draco's eyes widened, and Harry would have found it funny, the way he looked so blandly shocked, had the blonde been looking at anyone else. "Stupid pathetic celebration? Excuse to pig out?"  
  
He stood up, so quickly that the book he'd had in his lap - 101 Positions You Never Thought You Were Flexible Enough For, But Were, And What To Do Now that You Know, by Amanda Xes - skidded across the floor and hit the opposite wall with a hollow thud.  
  
"How could you say that?"  
  
"About Valentine's Day?" Harry asked, flabbergasted. "Admit it, Draco, it's cheesy."  
  
"Oh, fuck you," Draco hissed through clenched teeth, and he turned around and walked off, leaving Harry to stand there, looking quite the fool - as usual, Harry noted bitterly.  
  
Even worse was that he had no clue what he had done wrong, unless expressing his opinion was considered impolite in the Malfoy Book of Etiquette - was there a Malfoy Book of Etiquette? he didn't doubt it... - and it didn't surprise him that it possibly did. He considered, briefly, running after Draco, but thought better of it He'll come after me if he forgives me... but what should he forgive me for? Is he always this unreasonable? Lately, talking to Draco made him feel like he was banging his head very fast on a stone wall - getting nowhere and hurting himself.  
  
Clueless, he bent to pick up the discarded book, and left also.  
  
* * *  
  
Blaise Zabini was up to her neck in work. Her eyes watered and threatened to spill over; it was an allergic reaction to the thick layer of dust that covered the book she was trying - without much success - to read. 791 pages, she groaned inwardly, for next week! McGonagall's finally lost it. She's following in Trelawney's footsteps, that one. Oh well, they do say that senility comes with old age. It's high time she retired anyway...  
  
She did not expect to be bothered, but surprises do exist: a shy male voice asked, "Uh, are you in Slytherin?"  
  
Blaise raised her head. "Yes, Potter, I'm in Slytherin! I'd expect you to be able to recognize your enemies when you see them." She rolled her eyes, irritated, but amused at his look of surprise.  
  
"What do you want, Potter?"  
  
"Are you... Are you a friend of Draco's?"  
  
"I'm actually Draco's cousin. I'm also his best friend, and I'm hurt he didn't tell you already." She glared at him with a `you wanna make something of it?' look.  
  
"Cousins?" echoed Harry. "So you weren't dating a few years ago?"  
  
Blaise blinked and wondered if he'd bothered her just to ask her that stupid question. "No, Potter," she said coldly, "that was a rumour spread around by people who have pathetic, empty lives." She glared even more fiercely at him, straining her eyes. "Incest is sometimes that perhaps - surely, in fact - happens in your family, mine is above it."  
  
Shit, thought Harry. Another one who thinks she's so hot just because she's a Malfoy. There was a retort burning his tongue, but he couldn't offend her. Not now. "I'm sorry, Blaise, I shouldn't have asked. I, uh, I need your help with something..."  
  
"Good for you, Potter, admitting you have a problem and need help is the first step towards recovery."  
  
"I... what?!" He frowned. "Shut it. Thing is, I was with Draco and..." He shut his mouth at the last minute, not knowing if she was aware that he and t.he blonde were a couple.  
  
"Don't worry," she reassured him lazily. "I know. All. About. It. Draco's very proud of his...conquest, shall I say?" She flashed him a grin, purposely instilling doubt in his heart, wanting to make him wonder whether Draco really loved him or just seduced him to be able to brag about it. Harry could imagine Draco's voice saying, "It makes for good party chit chat: `Hey, I'm Draco Malfoy and I own the heart of The Boy Who Lived.'"  
  
"Potter, I haven't all day. Get on with it."  
  
He sat down across the table. "See, this is the thing... I was talking to Draco and, well, Valentine's Day popped up and I said I hated it because it's pathetic."  
  
Blaise groaned. "Idiot."  
  
"What?"  
  
"And I'm not insulting you just because you're in Gryffindor and I hate your guts." She narrowed her eyes and glared at him again - exactly like Draco so often did. "I can see you don't have a clue so I'll fill you in: Draco is V-day-obsessed."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"It's his favorite holiday and he loves it more than Christmas and even his birthday, because he can hardly count the number of Valentines he gets. From girls who love him, from boys who love him, from Snape, from those annoying Veela at Veelas Inc, from Witch Weekly... The point, Potter, is that he adores each and every card he gets from perfect strangers. Last year one girl didn't send a card like she did the year dbefore that and he sulked around for days. So you can imagine how he'd feel if he didn't get one from you."  
  
"Oh... Oh. Oh!" Harry exclaimed. "Oh my God, I'll be dead by tomorrow if I don't fix this... Blaise, you've got to help me!"  
  
"I will not." Blaise gave him a `go to hell and rot there' look. "It's your mess, you wipe it up."  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione was hiding in the narrow space between two bookshelves. She had run out of her dormitory at the last minute, knowing that her pride would prevent her from going ballistic if she was in a room with other people. If she stayed alone, she might self-destruct, and she was fighting to stay together. She was hiding because she'd spied Harry entering, chatting with Blaise for a bit, then walk out with her; fearing that he'd come back, she had tried to make herself invisible. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to see him.  
  
"Hermione."  
  
She looked up at the quiet voice. "Terry," she acknowledged. The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. Terry could make it all better... he could and he would, wouldn't he? He had to.... She needed him so much although she didn't know it.  
  
"You cut your hair." He sounded shocked and hurt; he seemed to be saying, `How could you have done such a thing when you knew how much I loved it?'  
  
"Oh, Terry. I'm sorry. I did it before I remembered how much you liked it." With a small shock, she realized that it would take months - perhaps years - before he would be able to run his fingers through her hair again. It did not occur to her that she could regrow it magically.  
  
"It will grow again," he murmured, sounding as though he was consoling himself more than her, "it will be long again before the year is over."  
  
She nodded her assent.  
  
"What were you doing here? You look as though you're hiding - " he leaned forwards, and, his hand snaking around hers, pulled her to her feet. "You're shaking," he noticed. "Are you ill? Perhaps you'd feel better in the hospital wing, under Madam Pomfrey's care, than here, breathing the aroma of dusty leather-bound tomes."  
  
She laughed; it was a hollow sound but the knowledge that she could laugh still, after a shocking discovery such as the one she had made yesterday improved her mood. "I love the way you talk."  
  
"And I'm glad you do, but you haven't answered my question: are you ill?"  
  
She shook her head violently, until it hurt. "No! And I like it, here. It's so quiet. And... peaceful. You understand." She noted that, had she tried to explain why she loved the library to Harry or Ron, she would have felt awkward and nerdy, whereas Terry understood. She never had to try hard to make him see her point; he already knew.  
  
"Yes, I do. Hermione, I wonder why you're in Gryffindor. You belong in Ravenclaw; it's obvious. You're every bit a Ravenclaw. And by that I don't mean that you're not courageous - every respected Gryffindor's trademark! - but you have such a... desperate thirst for knowledge that nothing can quench..."  
  
"Ask the Sorting Hat, Terry, not me. I don't know. I can't honestly say that I regret its decision, though."  
  
"I know."  
  
Terry always knew, Hermione thought happily. She felt suddenly warmer than she had before he'd come, as though his presence was a gust of tropical wind.  
  
"I wanted to ask you something." He clasped her hands, suddenly smiling. "You do know that the Valentine's day dance is in three days?"  
  
"It is?"  
  
He laughed. "Too busy thinking of History of the Veela to remember? Dumbledore told us last week at the Prefect meeting."  
  
She blushed and did not reply.  
  
"Will you do me the honor of escorting me?"  
  
Instead of dutifully answering the question, she stood of the tips of her toes - he was three inches taller than her - and kissed him softly and uncertainly. He was surprised, but soon enough his hand pressed against her back, steadying her, and the other hand gently stroked her face.  
  
She realized, at that moment - clichéd as it seemed - that no matter how much she mooned over Harry and Draco, she'd always come back to Terry in the end. He was a perfect male version of her, albeit a tad melancholy; he understood her completely; he knew what it meant to be an overachiever, a "know-it-all", what it meant to get grades that were above every teacher's standards. They thought the same way; he was she and she was he.  
  
Gathering courage, she pressed her lips against his, and her arms found a place around his neck. "Mmrrf," she murmured, desperately trying to get closer, unable to remember when she'd felt this way about any other boy, because she hadn't.  
  
All too soon she ran out of air. She struggled for a few seconds, between pulling away and getting a lungful of air, or stay pressed against Terry and choke. Fortunately she remembered that she had a nose, and breathed through it.  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
She had been so wrapped up in - in what? - in how it felt to kiss Terry that she hadn't noticed that the kiss itself had been broken. "Of course it is," she replied, flustered.  
  
"I wish I got an answer along those lines each time I asked you something," Terry said, grinning wickedly.  
  
Hermione gave him a mock-glare and laughed. Terry, instead of smiling back, frowned in a pensive way at her, and took hold of her hand. "What is it?" she asked, a bit of fear showing in her eyes.  
  
"You really look dreadfully ill. You're skinny, pale as a corpse, with black circles underneath your eyes - " he traced them with his fingers - "and I think you should be in the infirmary, not in the library. I'm serious, Hermione, you look as though you might faint any minute. I'm worried."  
  
"It's just studying too much," she argued, feeling twinges of guilt for lying to him - she hadn't opened a book in days. "For crissakes, I'm not going to die. All I need is a good night's rest."  
  
"All the same, I'd feel better if I knew you were in Madam Pomfrey's good hands." He put an arm firmly around her waist, his other hand still clasping hers, and walked her out of the library, down several staircases, and into the infirmary.  
  
It wasn't empty of patients as Hermione had supposed it would be. A bed in the far corner of the room had someone in it. She leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of her -  
  
"'Lo, Hermione," Harry Potter said.  
  
"Ah..." At a loss for words for the first time, Hermione stared. She managed to say, "What the hell happened to you? You look like shit." Behind her, Terry snorted in agreement.  
  
"It's just a black eye and a broken nose," Harry said defensively. I should have ducked, but I didn't know he had an aim that good...  
  
"Yeah, whatever," said Hermione. 


	3. Chapter III

Finally I've uploaded this! I know, I know, I should have gotten this up ages ago, and I know, I know, I'm so very lazy, but... And anyway, I have a bit of chapter VI written. A reason to rejoice!  
  
Sorry to all who waited - but not in vain!  
  
Voila. Enjoy.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione, standing in the small bathroom that she had all to herself - one of the advantages of being Head Girl - tried to see herself in the steam-covered mirror. She had come to shower, but she found herself unable for a reason she could not comprehend. . Raising a world-weary finger, she traced a circle though the fog on the glass to see her reflection.  
  
Brown eyes.  
  
Frizzy hair - it always curled when humid - braided, hanging down her back.  
  
Small nose - nothing like Ron's.  
  
Small mouth.  
  
Pale cheeks.  
  
She was suddenly overcome with hatred towards that one braid of hers. She was the only seventh-year with such a ridiculous hairstyle, save a few Hufflepuffs and one lone Ravenclaw; the other girls let their hair loose, or styled it in elegant chignons, or preppy ponytails and bobs. Never braids.  
  
Maybe that was the reason Harry had walked past her instead of putting her on the list of potential girlfriends. Maybe that was why he'd turned towards Malfoy instead; she'd never seen *him* with braids.  
  
She seized the scissors lying on the small vanity - a gift from Lavender, who had insisted that she have it - in one hand and her fat braid in the other.  
  
Snip.  
  
Snap.  
  
A puddle of reddish-brown tresses fell at her feet. Gone was the braid. But she kept on cutting - her one-waist-length hair now came up to her chin, unevenly. By now the steam had gone. She looked up at herself, thinking that she looked very strange without all the hair to frame her face. //Different. I look so different. This is not me. This is a girl Harry Potter could fall in love with, if he wasn't too busy fucking Malfoy to see me.//  
  
But...  
  
Terry.  
  
He sprung into her mind unexpectedly, like a slap in the face when one was expecting a kiss; she had been thinking solely of Harry and her hair until that point. But now she flinched inwardly at the thought of her boyfriend, who loved her, and how she was planning to two-time him, preferring Harry the athletic midget over the handsome bookworm from the House of Intellectuals, as Ron referred to it.  
  
"Oh God," she muttered, hiding her face in her hands - she couldn't even look herself in the eye now. And Terry had especially loved her hair. "Like an auburn waterfall," he'd said, "don't ever cut it off, Hermione. Let it grow. Your hair is so beautiful." The sweetest thing a member of the opposite sex had ever said to her; the words rang crystal-clear in her ears. He had such a way of speaking, intense but calm all at once; his words seemed grandiose and some people thought he overdid it with the big "dictionary words" but they seemed so simple and - most of all - true to her. He was so sincere, his honesty was written on his face like a script.  
  
What had she done?  
  
And for a boy who'd never noticed her and never would now that he was a couple with Draco?  
  
She cursed her idiocy.  
  
* * *  
  
Draco's storm-gray eyes met Harry's jade ones in a desperate battle of wills.  
  
"No," said Draco.  
  
"Yes," sighed Harry.  
  
"No." Stubbornly, Draco narrowed his eyes. Draco's eyes, Harry noted, changed colors. Last night they'd been a soft, tired-looking gray, like storm-clouds that had poured their rain down onto the world and were now impatient to rest. Sometimes they were silverish, dreamy - and on rare occasions they reflected other colors: blues, greens, and reddish hues blended and made his orbs look like a Monet watercolor. Right now they so closely resembled steel, and were so cold, that Harry gulped. //He looks like he could kill me if he didn't get his way. Steel. Axes are made from steel. Murderers. Axe-murderers.//  
  
"Draco." Harry spoke patiently, sounding as though he was explaining a complex notion to one with an IQ of six. "I'm sorry, but I have two rolls of parchment on Thessa the Terrible's minions rebelling - for tomorrow, and you know Binns doesn't buy cheap excuses."  
  
"So, homework is more important than *me*?" Draco said incredulously.  
  
"No, but... Damn, Draco, *don't* look at me like that! I don't want to have to repeat my seventh year."  
  
"How dare you do this to me. And with Valentine's Day coming up too."  
  
Harry's eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about that... Valentine's Day was ranked among the other Hideously Disgusting things he'd encoutered - such as Voldemort, Flobberworms, and a house-elf drunk on Butterbeer - so naturally he hadn't given it any thought.  
  
"Stupid, pathetic celebration," he grumbled. "Excuse to pig out on heart-shaped chocolates. Disgusts me. What about it?"  
  
Now Draco's eyes widened, and Harry would have found it funny, the way he looked so blandly shocked, had the blonde been looking at anyone else. "Stupid pathetic celebration? Excuse to pig out?"  
  
He stood up, so quickly that the book he'd had in his lap - 101 Positions You Never Thought You Were Flexible Enough For, But Were! by Amanda Xes - skidded across the floor and hit the opposite wall with a hollow "*thud*".  
  
"How could you say that?"  
  
"About Valentine's Day?" Harry asked, flabbergasted. "Admit it, Draco, it's cheesy."  
  
"*Fuck* *you*," Draco hissed through clenched teeth.  
  
He turned around.  
  
He left Harry standing there, looking quite the fool - as usual, Harry noted bitterly.  
  
Even worse was that he had no clue what he had done wrong, unless expressing his opinion was considered impolite in the Malfoy Book of Etiquette - was there a Malfoy Book of Etiquette? he didn't doubt it... - and it didn't surprise him that it possibly did. He considered, briefly, running after Draco, but thought better of it //He'll come after *me* if he forgives me... but what should he forgive me *for*?//  
  
Clueless, he bent to pick up the discarded book, and left also.  
  
* * *  
  
Blaise Zabini was up to her neck in work. Her eyes watered and threatened to spill over; it was an allergic reaction to the thick layer of dust that covered the book she was trying - without much success - to read. //791 pages,"// she groaned inwardly, //for next week! McGonagall's finally lost it. She's following in Trelawney's footsteps, that one. Oh well, they do say that senility comes with old age. It's high time she retired anyway...//  
  
She did not expect to be bothered, but surprises do exist: a shy male voice asked, "Uh, are you in Slytherin?"  
  
Blaise raised her highlighted head. "Yes, Potter, I'm in Slytherin! I'd expect you to be able to recognize your enemies when you see them." She rolled her eyes, irritated, but amused at his look of surprise. //He didn't think he'd be recognized? Ha! Everyone knows that scar...//  
  
"What do you want, Potter?"  
  
"Are you... Are you a friend of Draco's?"  
  
"I'm actually Draco's second cousin four times removed. I'm his best friend." She glared at him with a `you wanna make something of it?' look.  
  
"Great!... Blaise, uh, I need your help with something..."  
  
"Good for you, Potter, admitting you have a problem and need help is the first step towards recovery." She couldn't resist cracking a joke.  
  
"I... what?!" He frowned. "Shut it. Thing is, I was with Draco and..." He shut his mouth at the last minute, not knowing if she was aware that he and the blonde were a couple.  
  
"Don't worry," she reassured him lazily. "I know. All. About. It. Draco's very proud of his...conquest, shall I say?" She flashed him a grin, purposely instilling doubt in his heart. She wanted to make him wonder whether Draco really loved him or just seduced him to be able to brag about it. Harry could imagine Draco's voice saying, "It makes for good party chit chat: `Hey, I'm Draco Malfoy and I own the heart of The Boy Who Lived.'"  
  
"Potter, I haven't all day. Get on with it."  
  
He sat down across the table. "See, this is the thing... I was talking to Draco and, well, Valentine's Day popped up and I said I hated it because it's pathetic."  
  
Blaise groaned. "Idiot."  
  
"What?"  
  
"And I'm not insulting you just because you're in Gryffindor and I hate your guts." She narrowed her eyes and glared at him - exactly like Draco so often did. "I can see you don't have a clue so I'll fill you in: Draco is V-day-obsessed."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"It's his favorite holiday and he loves it more than Christmas and even his birthday, because he can hardly count the number of Valentines he gets. From girls who love him, from boys who love him, from Snape, from those annoying Veela at Veelas Inc... The point, Potter, is that he adores each and every card he gets from perfect strangers. Last year one girl didn't send a card and he sulked around for days. So you can imagine how he'd feel if he didn't get one from *you*  
  
"Oh... Oh. Oh!" Harry exclaimed. "Oh my God, I'll be dead by tomorrow if I don't fix this... Blaise, you've got to help me!"  
  
"I will not." Blaise gave him a `go to hell and die' look. "It's your mess, you wipe it up."  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione was hiding in the narrow space between two bookshelves. She had run out of her dormitory at the last minute, knowing that her pride would prevent her from going ballistic if she was in a room with other people. If she stayed alone, she'd self-destruct, and she was fighting to stay together. She was hiding because she'd spied Harry entering, chatting with Blaise for a bit, then walk out with her; fearing that he'd come back, she had tried to make herself invisible. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to see him.  
  
"Hermione."  
  
She looked up at the quiet voice. "Terry," she acknowledged. The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. Terry could make it all better... he could and he *would*, wouldn't he? He had to.... She needed him so much although she didn't know it.  
  
"You cut your hair." He sounded shocked and hurt; he seemed to be saying, `How could you have done such a thing when you knew how much I loved your hair?'  
  
"Oh, Terry. I'm sorry. I did it before I remembered how much you liked it." With a small shock, she realized that it would take months - perhaps years - before he would be able to run his fingers through her hair again.  
  
"It will grow again," he murmured, sounding as though he was consoling himself more than her, "it will be long again before the year is over."  
  
She nodded her assent.  
  
"What were you doing here? You look as though you're hiding - " he leaned forwards, and, his hand snaking around hers, pulled her to her feet. "You're shaking," he noticed. "Are you ill? Perhaps you'd feel better in the hospital wing, under Madam Pomfrey's care, than here, breathing the aroma of dusty leather-bound tomes."  
  
She laughed; it was a hollow sound but the knowledge that she *could* laugh still, after a shocking discovery such as the one she had made yesterday improved her mood. "I love the way you talk."  
  
"And I'm glad you do, but you haven't answered my question: are you ill?"  
  
She shook her head violently, until it hurt. "No! And I like it, here. It's so quiet. And... peaceful. You understand." She noted that, had she tried to explain why she loved the library to Harry or Ron, she would have felt awkward, whereas Terry understood. She never had to try hard to make him see her point; he already knew.  
  
"Yes, I do. Hermione, I wonder why you're in Gryffindor. You belong in Ravenclaw; it's obvious. You're every bit a Ravenclaw. And by that I don't mean that you're not courageous - every respected Gryffindor's trademark! - but you have such a... desperate thirst for knowledge that nothing can quench..."  
  
"Ask the Sorting Hat, Terry, not me. I don't know. I can't honestly say that I regret its decision, though."  
  
"I know."  
  
Terry *always* knew, Hermione thought happily.  
  
"I wanted to ask you something." He clasped her hands, suddenly smiling. "You do know that the Valentine's day dance is in three days?"  
  
"It is?"  
  
He laughed. "Too busy thinking of History of the Veela to have heard Dumbledore tell us about it last week?"  
  
She blushed and did not reply.  
  
"Will you do me the honor of escorting me?"  
  
Instead of dutifully answering the question, she stood of the tips of her toes - he was three inches taller than her - and kissed him softly, slowly, uncertainly. He was surprised, but soon enough his hand pressed against her back, steadying her, and the other hand gently stroked her face.  
  
She realized, at that moment - cliched as it seemed - that no matter how much she mooned over Harry and Draco, she'd always come back to Terry in the end. He was a perfect male version of her, albeit a tad melancholy; he understood her completely; he knew what it meant to be an overachiever, a "know-it-all", what it meant to get grades that were above every teacher's standards. They thought the same way; he was she and she was he.  
  
Gathering courage, she pressed her lips against his, and her arms found a place around his neck. "Mmrrf," she murmured, desperately trying to get closer, unable to remember *when* she'd felt this way about any other boy...  
  
All too soon she ran out of air. She struggled for a few seconds, between pulling away and getting a lungful of air, or stay pressed against Terry and choke. Fortunately she remembered that she had a nose, and breathed through it.  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
She had been so wrapped up in - in what? - in how it felt to kiss Terry that she hadn't noticed that the kiss itself had been broken. "Of course it is," she replied, flustered.  
  
"I wish I got an answer along those lines each time I asked you something," Terry said, grinning wickedly.  
  
Hermione gave him a mock-glare and laughed. Terry, instead of smiling back, frowned in a pensive way at her, and took hold of her hand. "What is it?" she asked, a bit of fear showing in her eyes.  
  
"You look dreadfully ill. You're skinny, pale as a corpse, with purple-black circles underneath your eyes - " he traced them with his fingers - "and I think you should be in the infirmary, not in the library. I'm serious, Hermione, you look as though you might faint any minute."  
  
"It's just studying too much," she argued, feeling twinges of guilt for lying to him - she hadn't opened a book in days. "For crissakes, I'm not going to *die*. All I need is a good night's rest."  
  
"All the same, I'd feel better if I knew you were in Madam Pomfrey's good hands." He put an arm firmly around her waist, his other hand still clasping hers, and walked her out of the library, down several staircases, and into the infirmary.  
  
It wasn't empty of patients as Hermione had expected. A bed in the far corner of the room had someone in it. She leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of her -  
  
"'Lo, Hermione," Harry Potter said.  
  
"Ah..." At a loss for words for the first time, Hermione stared. She managed to say, "What the hell happened to you? You look like shit." Behind her, Terry snorted in agreement.  
  
"It's just a black eye and a broken nose," Harry said defensively. //I should have ducked, but I didn't know he had an aim that good...//  
  
"Yeah, whatever," Hermione said. 


	4. Chapter IV

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money from this.   
  
Author's Note: This fic is doing better than I ever thought it would do... I'm surprised. And flattered. And wildly happy. Keep reviewed, okie? ^_^  
As usual I'm reviewing my reviews... LoL.  
  
ChibiWhiteFerret: LMAO. "No more Veela bashing"?? I'm in Veela Inc too, girl (you're a girl, right?) I'm rabidpurplehamster (if Lib ever mentions a hamster, it's me) and I'm a member of Draconian too and that was a harmless joke inserted to amuse myself. I can't believe you took it seriously! ^_^  
Rest assured there will be NO HERMIONE/HARRY!  
The Hermione/Terry "side thing" is because I really like Terry. He's mine. All mine. I've never read another fic with him in... so no one can say my characterization of him sucks...  
And yes, Dracey hit Harry. Hard.  
  
Link Master the Sage of Dreams: I'm really glad you liked it but five very short reviews in a row is a bit annoying. I'd rather get only one long one. Okie?  
You like the plot?... There's a plot??  
  
SophieB: I haven't gotten the link to your site yet - that is, if you still want to put C&B on it.   
  
Mandraco: Good point. Let's say Harry also has a cracked rib.  
  
MagiEvil the Shinigami: Should I *be* upstanding, or am I already upstanding? ^_~  
  
Gwendolyn: Yes, I updated, way later than I should have, but hey, I have a life outside this fic - although sometimes it doesn't seem so...  
  
ALSO. I have made a decision. This is no longer ONLY a Harry/Draco fic, meaning I'm sticking in other weird pairings in it. I'm announcing it officially to avoid getting reviews like "Why the fuck is Parvati in there?! I THOUGHT IT WAS H/D!!!"  
  
***  
  
It was six-fifteen in the morning, Valentine's Day, and it was for certain the earliest that Ronald Weasley had ever woken up. The same went for Seamus Finnigan. Why they were tangled together in a sweating pretzel against the wall of the Gryffindor Quidditch changing room was, however, not certain. The air was thick with their high-strung half-purrs of pleasure.   
  
The pretzel was broken when Ron pulled away without warning, and pushed a wet lock of red hair out of his eyes.  
  
"*What* is it *this* time?" asked Seamus, annoyed.  
  
"The guilt is killing me," Ron said dramatically, clasping his hands to his heart.  
  
"Cut the theatricals. What's wrong?"  
  
"Seriously?... Parvati. I mean, she thinks that - she doesn't know that - she trusts me! And I don't deserve her trust," Ron burst out. "I'm scum. Cheating scum."  
  
"Arragh," Seamus scoffed, shaking his head, sending sand-colored wisps of hair flying. "At our age, it's not cheating, it's experimenting. Everyone experiments."  
  
"That may be true - "  
  
"You know it is!"  
  
" - but this sneaking around isn't agreeing with me, Seamus."  
  
"We're only sneaking around because *you* suppose that Parvati disapproves of polygamous relationships," the Irish boy pointed out.  
  
"Well, s'not like I could *ask* her," Ron argued.  
  
"*I* would."  
  
Ron didn't answer, just stared down at the floor and at his well worn-out shoes. Seamus playfully punched him on the shoulder. "There's no point in feeling guilty because she'd do the same to you. She probably is."  
  
At this Ron's gaze lifted from the floor; his eyes - the color of the ocean during a violent storm - met Seamus' turquoise ones. "What d'you mean?"  
  
"I'm only saying, it strikes me that Parvati isn't the kind of girl who'd be happy with just one guy. She's probably two-timing you while you're... experimenting." Seamus grinned wickedly and mercilessly went on. "So while you're beating yourself up about being unfaithful to her she's cheating on *you*  
  
Sighing deeply in a long-suffering way, Ron asked, "You think so?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Thus, partly reassured - but confused and still a tad guilty - Ron edged towards Seamus. The two young men continued their snog-fest in blissful silence.  
  
***  
  
The irony of the situation was that while Ron was appeasing his conscience by telling himself that Parvati was being unfaithful to him - while he was seeing Seamus behind her back - Parvati was not cheating on him, and she hadn't the slightest idea that Ron was two-timing her.   
  
She was walking purposely down the long stretch of stores that was the main Hogsmeade road, looking as usual neatly starched and ironed. Her long, flowing, thick hair - her most prized 'possession' - was styled into a fashionable chignon; and she wore tight Muggle jeans under her school robes. She was looking for, and hoping to find, two things: something to wear to the Valentine's Day dance this evening, and a Valentine's Day present for Ron.   
  
She recalled what she had said to Lavender - her best friend, although she was a bit dumb sometimes, and it felt like having a dog instead of a friend - in fifth year, one night when they had been unable to sleep:  
  
"I like older men. Women mature so much faster than men do that I'd have to date a thirty-year-old if I wanted to be with a guy that I'm on the same intellectual level with. Look at Harry and Ron; they're fifteen but they act like four-year-olds sometimes. I'm never going to be in a relationship with someone that's the same age as me - or younger."  
  
She had been unfaithful - to herself, in a way - in that respect only: Ron Weasley was two weeks younger than her.   
  
***  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Harry shuffled into the library, rubbing his nose where Draco had hit it the day before. He had gotten out of the hospital wing and was now looking all over for the blonde boy; it was, after all, Valentine's Day.   
  
"He's in his dormitory," a voice called out.   
  
Harry spun around, recognizing the tone. "Blaise!" he exclaimed.   
  
"In person," she replied, rolling her eyes in annoyance. She breezed past him and out of the library rapidly, struggling slightly with the weight of her books - but are they called books when they weigh ten pounds?  
  
"Er, let me help you," Harry offered chivalrously, thinking it was the perfect occasion to get back into Blaise's good graces - if he had ever been in her good graces.   
  
"Thanks."  
  
Silence. Crickets could be heard chirping, and Harry pulled a muscle in his arm.   
  
"So what do you want, Potter?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You wouldn't be carrying my books - you're quite red in the face, by the way - if you didn't need my help. You'd never help a Slytherin unless you desperately wanted something." She smirked, happy because she knew she was right, and because she could torture Harry by not telling him whatever it was he wanted to know.   
  
"Well..."  
  
"Am I right?"  
  
"... Yes."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"IdunnowhereDracosdormis," Harry mumbled.  
  
"Speak up, Potter," Blaise exclaimed in exasperation.   
  
"I don't know where Draco's dorm is."  
  
The Slytherin girl gave a great whoop of laughter. "My, my, Potter. Then where have you been snogging all this time? Draco would never set foot in *your* dormitory."  
  
"Broom closets," Harry told her sullenly.   
  
Blaise, still smirking, added another book to the heavy pile that Harry was carrying. "You know how to get to the Potions dungeon, right?"  
  
"You underestimate me," Harry said with difficulty; a vein was throbbing in his temple and he felt he could collapse on the floor for overexertion. Blaise, feeling sorry for him despite her abhorrence of Gryffindors, leaned down - he was an inch or two shorter than her - and said,  
  
"You go to the Potions dungeon - but not *inside* it - you turn right and go down the hall, turn left, down another hall, and when you reach a marble statue of Draco -"  
  
"He has his own statue?"  
  
"Lucius convinced Dumbledore - he's a school governor - the password is 'here kitty kitty'... *Don't* ask." She straightened up, a tad huffily, then said, almost in a sympathetic voice, "Good luck, Potter."  
  
"Thanks..." While Blaise was disappearing down the hallway, something occurred to Harry. "Blaise! You think I'll need it?"  
  
"He cracked one of your ribs, broke your nose, and gave you a black eye. I think you will."  
  
***  
  
Harry easily found the Potions classroom in the dungeons. From there he turned left, but found no hall: only an arch-shaped hole in the wall, that looked as though it had been a window that someone had taken the glass out of. Feeling foolish, and wondering if Blaise had tricked him - //She *is* a Slytherin...// - he stepped through the hole. On the other side of it, he found a passageway that separated into three other passageways. Groaning in frustration, and muttering curse words to himself, he scratched his head. He had no clue which way to go.   
  
Then it hit him.  
  
He had been supposed to turn *right*.  
  
"Damn," he muttered.  
  
He turned around and ran all the way back to the Potions classroom, ignoring the painful stitch in his side - it felt as though his liver was on fire - and turned right; he found the hallway. Grinning in victory - his fear of Draco's reaction had been drowned in his pride at managing to find the right way - he made his way down the hall and turned right, and down the second hallway.   
  
Harry came face to face to a seven-foot-high statue of Draco Malfoy himself, in all his smirking glory and all he could do was gape. This was a perfect clone of the blonde - made of stone, of course, but...   
  
"Uh... Here, kitty, kitty," he managed to say. Marble-Draco frowned suspiciously at him, as though aware that he was an intruder of sorts - then took two steps to the side, exposing *another* stone archway, exactly the same as the one Harry had accidentally come across. It was about three square feet.   
  
"I'm supposed to go in there?" Harry asked Marble-Draco hesitantly. The statue nodded violently.   
  
//I don't like this,// Harry thought. //Goddamned Slytherins.//  
  
He pulled the Invisibility Cloak - he'd had the presence of mind to bring it - out of his robes pocket and shook it out. Marble-Draco watched with interest. He wrapped the Cloak around himself, then studied the archway: "But it's too high for me to be able to climb," he told Marble-Draco.  
  
The statue, with an evil smirk, leaned down; his marble arm swiped through the air. Harry removed the Cloak from his head to make it easier for Marble-Draco to find him. And find him he did; the statue grabbed him - Harry almost let go of his Cloak in surprise - and picked him up. "Aaaaaaack!" shrieked Harry, sounding very much like a girl, as he was thrown through the archway.  
  
He slid down about twenty feet and found himself in the Slytherin common room - luckily he had covered his head with the Invisibility Cloak during his fall. It was damp and nearly empty, except for a handful of burly-looking girls, and the glow of the dying fire danced ominously on the high backs of the leather armchairs. //Freaky,// thought Harry. He looked around and spotted a staircase - it was exactly like the one in the Gryffindor common room, except that it was not covered by a scarlet rug. He walked slowly across the room to it, holding his breath, and climbed the stairway quickly.   
  
***  
  
Hermione's arm reached out blindly for something to hold on to, because she was about to lose her balance; her fingers touched something hard and wooden. She stretched her hand farther out, and grazed something cool and soft... an eiderdown? Then the hard thing had been a bedpost, and she was touching Terry's bed. It would be, without a doubt, more comfortable than being pressed against his desk with a sharp-ended quill digging into her back.   
  
"Mm... hold on a second," she whispered, taking a half-step away from him and straightening her robes.   
  
"What is it?... something wrong?" Terry asked a bit nervously.   
  
"It's just that your desk isn't that comfortable," she grinned. "On the other hand, your bed looks soft..."  
  
At her words the Head Boy blushed furiously, and she colored as well as she realized what he thought she'd meant. "No - let me rephrase that. *On* the bed, not *in* it," she said quickly. She laughed at her mistake, and Terry asked,   
  
"But perhaps it would be better if you were shopping for a dress to wear to the dance? It's tonight, as you know." At her puzzled look, he added, "You *do* know, right? We've spent the last two days planning it with the Prefects. Unless you've already planned what to wear?"  
  
"Ugh, you're right... it's been a slow day," Hermione said.   
  
"I don't think I helped, in that case."  
  
"Oh, you did... more than you know."  
  
"Should I help with the dress too?"  
  
"Oh, no! The dress is going to be a... surprise." She had almost said disaster, and she mentally chided herself for being so pessimistic about the dance - //I *can* dance!... sort of...// - and added, "You don't have to come, although I appreciate your offering to; I'm sure you have something better to do." She managed a smile; this dance was making her unusually nervous, and she didn't know what she was so scared of. There was a whirlpool of worry deep inside her belly.   
  
Hermione stretched her neck and gave Terry a kiss on the cheek, then turned towards the door: "I'll see you tonight."  
  
***  
  
Ginny Weasley had followed Parvati into Hogsmeade. The older girl was her idol, her role model, everything Ginny wanted to be; Ginny tried so hard to be exactly like her. She was not, unlike the majority of Hogwarts girls swarming in and out of boutiques, looking for something to wear to the dance: she wasn't going to the dance. She had been humiliated and mortified when nobody had asked her, and most of all she was puzzled, because it seemed - to her *and* to half of the Hogwarts male student body, the other half being too immature and inexperienced - that she was young and desirable and that many a lad would like to be her escort to the dance.   
  
Parvati had had seven young men ask her - Ron, Dean, three fifth-years from Hufflepuff and two boys from Ravenclaw - and she had bragged about it so much that even Ginny, her worshipping protégée, couldn't stand to be around her.   
  
Right now she was window-shopping - Lavender had told her that it was soothing for the soul. She was searching for anything that Parvati might wear, so that she might see what the problem was with her own clothes. Anything too colorful was out of the question - the confusing thing about Parvati Patil was that although she abhorred 'blending in' with a crowd, she hated standing out, and she only wore dark red, navy blue, forest green and black, apart from the occasional white.   
  
Ginny found nothing. Discouraged and disgusted - with herself - she walked into the Three Broomsticks for a hot mug of Butterbeer. "That's also soothing for the soul," she muttered half-heartedly, seating herself on a high stool right next to the bar.   
  
"Butterbeer," she said coldly to Madam Rosmerta, who immediately poured a steaming mug-full of the drink. Ginny didn't thank her, and looked around idly to see if she'd find anyone she knew.   
  
//Who's *that*?// she wondered curiously as she stared at the stranger sitting two stools away from her. He had golden-blonde hair, rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. She remembered suddenly. Ludo Bagman.   
  
//He's changed,// she thought, not disapprovingly, as she sneaked looks at him. //He's lost that flab... Oo. Nice muscles.// With a grin, she made up her mind to get off the stool and go talk to him. But it was easier said than done: her legs seemed stuck around those of the stool and she wondered why *he* would like her when stupid little pimply, gangly-armed teenagers had rejected her. //You'll lose nothing. *Go*!//  
  
She stood right behind him, but he didn't notice; annoyed, she cleared her throat, and he turned around. "Hi," she said, smiling widely to expose each and every gleaming tooth - helped, of course, by a Whitening Charm.  
  
"Hello," he answered pleasantly.  
  
"I'm Virginia" - the name Ginny seemed too babyish now - "Are you new here? I don't recall seeing you around." She cursed herself as soon as the words left her tongue: she hadn't meant to say she lived 'around', he might guess she was a student... Thank the gods Parvati had done her makeup before she'd left and she looked around twenty - "legal drinking age, at least."  
  
"I'm Ludovic Bagman, and you could say I'm on a business trip. I'm going to watch the Quidditch matches until the end of the year, to see if there's any talent at Hogwarts." He smiled warmly at her and she felt like curling up at his feet - or in his lap.  
  
"Oh, Harry Potter is *destined* to play for England!" she said enthusiastically.   
  
"Do you know him personally?"  
  
"Do I? He's in my House!" As soon as she said that, she felt as though she could bite her tongue off: now he *knew* she was a student!  
  
"In... in your House?" He seemed regretful and a tad worried. "How old are you?"  
  
"Sixteen..." she whispered, in the mere ghost of the voice she'd used to proclaim Harry Potter's prowess at Quidditch. She lowered her eyes and stared at her shoes.   
  
"You don't look it," he said softly.  
  
"No," agreed Ginny, close to tears - she'd enjoyed the brief but interesting conversation she'd had with him, and now he'd never want to speak to her again since he knew she was only sixteen years old - a child... She suddenly whipped around and ran out of the tavern, forgetting that she had not paid for her Butterbeer. She forgot everything, and all became a blur - the snow, the air, the trees, the students - all except Ludovic Bagman's twinkling blue eyes. 


	5. Chapter V

Author's Note: Just a quick reminder: reviews increase productivity by 200% - in favorable circumstances, of course. So if you discover that the latest chapter of C&B is not out and you need your daily fix of H/D slash, drop me a line. A lot of lines. Please.  
  
Sophia: Nah, how could I possibly forget about my best reviewer?  
  
This is an extra-long chapter – yay! Chock-full of slashy goodness!  
  
No veelas were harmed during the writing of this fic.  
  
* * *  
  
Draco knew that Harry Potter was currently right outside the door to his dormitory, trying to get together the courage to knock. Was the young man psychic? Perhaps – one must never underestimate a Malfoy – but his knowledge of the Boy Who Lived's whereabouts had more to do with a short note he had received from Blaise than with his extra-sensorial powers.  
  
In third year, Blaise had discovered a method of exchanging letters which was considerably faster than using post owls – if the missive was short: a roll of parchment was the maximum. The method was as follows: one wrote the message, then moistened the parchment with rubbing alcohol. In truth, any alcohol stronger than beer worked, but as Draco pointed out, "I've better things to do with strong liquor than to waste it to send you letters, Blaise." The message was tied with a ribbon, then cast into a fire while the sender chanted the name of the person for whom the message was. Seconds later, after the parchment had burned, the message appeared on either the bed or the desk of the one whom received it.  
  
A short missive had appeared on Draco's bed a few minutes before. It said, "Draco - Sent Potter up. Hope I did right. Blaise."  
  
"Come in, Harry," Draco called out, sliding the parchment under his pillow and smoothing the eiderdown.  
  
The door opened slowly, with a creak – the damp in the dungeons rusted the hinges – and Harry's bewildered face appeared in the doorway. "Draco? How did you know?"  
  
"That's for me to know and for you to find out." The blonde hopped off the bed – but he did it do gracefully, in one fluid movement, that it could hardly be called hopping – and walked up to Harry. "You're here to apologize?"  
  
The raven-haired youth nodded, but added, "And so should you, for breaking my nose."  
  
"I had my reasons to do that," Draco smirked, "but insulting Valentine's Day was uncalled for."  
  
Harry pouted at him. "I'm sorry I said that Valentine's Day is pathetic, but I still think it is, and I'm entitled to my opinion as much as you're entitled to yours."  
  
"Good enough," Draco nodded, turning to the impressive mahogany wardrobe that towered above him. "Now – on to important things. What are you wearing to the Dance?" He opened the wardrobe doors, and pulled out a coat-hanger on which hung a black silk chemise – the buttons on it were black pearls – and black silk trousers, slightly bellbottom-ish. He caught Harry's curious look at them, and said, "Yes, I know, Muggle clothing… but I rather like them, the trousers show off my thigh muscles. But, ah, back to the original subject: what are *you* wearing?"  
  
"Nothing," Harry said, "I'm not going."  
  
"Oh, yes, you *are*. You're going with me."  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"Harry, don't be difficult." Draco's tone was accusing.  
  
"Why should I go?"  
  
"Because I said you are." Firm. Final. No-questions-asked. Do-as-I-say.  
  
"Fine," Harry said triumphantly, "but I have nothing to wear, and if I go in my plain day-to-day robes you'll be humiliated to be seen with me."  
  
"I have clothes enough for the both of us, don't worry about* that*… I've got a white version of the outfit I'm wearing now, but I rather think that a turtleneck would, ah, suit you better… your neck is not as pretty as mine…"  
  
"Matching outfits are dumb, anyway," Harry put it his two knuts. Draco shot him a look that said plainly, 'Shut it now lest you wish to feel the wrath of my fist' which made Harry bite his lips and close his mouth – it also made him wonder how long it would be before the next stupid comment coming from him.  
  
"Draaaaaco!" A shrill female voice, coming from outside the room, rang through the air.  
  
Draco looked up, the instant annoyance and worry in his eyes artfully concealed. "Shit," he hissed in Harry's direction, it's Pansy." He looked around, obviously for a place to hide his boyfriend. "In the closet you go, Harry. While you're in there you could look for something to wear – without making noise, of course – and … try not to breathe directly on my clothes, s'il te plait." He shoved the darker boy inside the closet and slammed the doors shut.  
  
"Draaaaaco!"  
  
"Come in, Pansy," Draco said, sitting on his bed again. Harry lost not one word of the conversation, and, truth be told, was rather comfortable, for the wardrobe was roomy, smelt of lilacs and vanilla – and he also got a chance to inspect Draco's clothing. He could lean against the wall, his head pillowed by Draco's velvet skirt – *skirt*? – and perchance fall asleep…  
  
"Well? Out with it, you fat leech, what do you want?" Despite the harsh words, Draco's voice showed no animosity. Harry discovered that through the crack between the doors, he could see as well as hear what was going on it the room. He pulled himself into a better position and squinted through the crack: Pansy, leaning heavily against Draco's mahogany desk, was batting eyelashes at the blonde, whose face was contorting in a struggle not to show disgust. She was wearing a very tight green robe that imitated snake scales. Harry tried very hard not to gag at the sight: the color green did horrible things to Pansy's complexion, and the tightness of the garment – it showed off all the bulges of fat, and hugged her body in all the wrong places - reminded Harry of the Spandex suits that speed skaters wore to competitions.  
  
"I've come to tell you that I will go to the dance will you." She spoke as though Draco was a small child and she was the kind baby-sitter offering a sugary treat. "You wouldn't want to go alone, would you?"  
  
"Of course not," admitted Draco, "but then again I haven't sunk as low as to have to go with *you*." In the wardrobe, Harry vigorously nodded his assent.  
  
Pansy laughed. The sound seemed artificial and strangely out-of-place in Draco's neat and polished dormitory. "You took me to the Yule Ball."  
  
"In fourth year," Draco interjected.  
  
"So what if it was in fourth year?"  
  
"My father made me take you."  
  
"You took me in fifth year too!" cried Pansy, ceasing to lean on the desk. She brought her hands to her hips.  
  
"Well, my father *paid* me for that."  
  
"Yeah, well, your father took my mother to the Yule Balls – "  
  
" – only *once* before my mother transferred from Beauxbatons in fifth year– "  
  
" – you could have been my brother – "  
  
"Yes, and then who would you be annoying right now?"  
  
That struck Pansy dumb for a few seconds, before she recovered her powers of speech and bellowed, "THEN WHO ARE YOU TAKING?"  
  
"That," said Draco, beginning to lose his patience, "is my business only, you stupid cow, now get out!"  
  
"I'll bet you that person is in here right *now*!"  
  
In the wardrobe, at Pansy's words, Harry's stomach gave a nasty lurch and jolt. Draco's pupils dilated in surprise, then shrank back to usual size; the change was imperceptible. "Go ahead and bet," Draco managed to say. "But I'd like to know what makes you think that."  
  
"You would never be alone in your dormitory on a Saturday – unless you were wanking off."  
  
"Homework," said Draco instantly.  
  
"Liar," accused Pansy with a smirk that made her second chin jiggle, "There isn't a single book of roll of parchment on your desk." Suddenly – without warning – she bounded across the room to Draco's bed; she snatched the eiderdown, making Draco tumble ungracefully to the floor; she peered with ridiculous scrutiny at the dust-free floor under Draco's bed; and finally satisfied that there was no intruder hidden there, she turned to Crabbe's bed, ignoring the dark glares that Draco sent her way.  
  
Crabbe's bed – nothing.  
  
Goyle's bed – zip.  
  
Avery's bed – nada.  
  
Wannerford's bed – zilch.  
  
"There's no one *in* here," Draco told her, but the girl's gaze had turned to the mahogany wardrobe. "Don't you dare touch my clothes!" the blonde yelped indignantly, but to no avail: Pansy wrenched open the thick doors, and Harry – who had felt very much like a mouse caught into a trap knowing it has no way out – fell out. Pansy immediately grabbed him by the collar; but as soon as she saw who it was, she dropped him like a hot potato.  
  
"Potter?!" she shrieked, whirling to face Draco, her hair coming out of its ponytail. "POTTER?!"  
  
"Well," said Draco mildly, "what's wrong with Potter?"  
  
"He's a GRYFFINDOR! He's SHORT! He has HORRIBLE HAIR, and… he's a GUY!" After reeling off Harry's long list of shortcomings, Pansy stopped for breath, very red in the face. Harry noticed, with surprise, that tears were welling up in her small brown eyes. He stood up and dusted himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, under the circumstances.  
  
"How… dare you." Pansy, clutching the folds of her hideous green robe, practically ran to the door. "How dare you, Draco Malfoy!" As she neared the door, she knocked over Avery's wastebasket, but ignoring it, exited and slammed the door, leaving a trail of crumpled parchment in her wake.  
  
"Well." Draco stooped to pick up the parchments, his back to Harry. "The three of us sure had a merry time."  
  
"Now Pansy knows." Harry hung his head.  
  
"Who gives a damn?" Draco straightened up, then snickered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The irony…" smirked Draco. He pointed towards the wardrobe door: "When Pansy opened those doors, Harry Potter *literally* came out of the closet."  
  
"Oh, shut up."  
  
"Right. Back to our previous topic of conversation… *What* are you wearing to that dance?"  
  
* * *  
  
"Does Miss like this one?" the perky Veela salesgirl asked, holding up a black sequined dress. She was growing impatient, and the pile of rejected clothing in her arms grew bigger; but she had to hold her tongue no matter what, for the manager had told her that this was one of Sorciere Mode's biggest clients – albeit a very difficult one.  
  
"No," Parvati answered, tossing her head. "It's got *sequins*. I don't want to *sparkle*, for God's sake. When I walk into a room I don't want the light to bounce off my dress and *blind* people. I want to look gorgeous, of *course*, but that dress looks like a clumsy kindergarten child spilled glitter on it."  
  
The Veela salesgirl's smile did not flicker. "No sequins? All right." She looked dubiously at the dozen black dresses in her arms. "But perhaps Miss would prefer something red, if it's for a Valentine's Day dance?"  
  
"Black," said Parvati stubbornly.  
  
"All right, black," the salesgirl said, with a weary inward sigh. "We've got an excellent selection of knee-length black dresses, sequin-free – it's Matia Vascon's spring line, you know."  
  
"No knee-lengths!" Parvati told her impatiently, "down to my ankles – at least!"  
  
"Down to your ankles. All right" and the Veela salesgirl disappeared, leaving Parvati alone with a pile of clothes she had found fault with. It was in these stressful moments that she longed for a cigarette, but she had stopped smoking last year – the habit had given her bad breath, which was a no-no for a girl who spent two-thirds of her time with her tongue in someone else's mouth. She looked around with a bored little sigh, then spotted a familiar face between the rows of clothing.  
  
"Hermione!" she called.  
  
"Hello, Parv," Hermione said wearily, looking harrowed.  
  
"You look dead on your feet," Parvati told her with a smile, "what's wrong?" She was never one to pass up on an occasion to share her wisdom with less wise creatures.  
  
"I've been looking for something to wear to the dance and…. Oh, I know *nothing* about clothes and I was getting practically *harassed* by the salesgirls – they were trying to con me into buying the most expensive clothes... Oh, Parv, help!"  
  
"Trying to impress the Head Boy?" Parvati teased with a wink.  
  
"I… how did you know about that?" Hermione exclaimed, dismayed.  
  
"Part logic, part wild guess."  
  
"Where does the logic come in?"  
  
"Well, when you started spending more and more in the 'library' I started to suspect… because usually you just go there and come back with the books, unless you're doing important research, and in that case you wouldn't have gone alone, you'd have taken Harry and Ron with you… and since you never told anyone what you were doing I immediately supposed that you were seeing a boy.  
  
"Then, having figured *that* out, I asked myself who you'd condescend to go out with. Had it been a Gryffindor everybody would have known; you think Hufflepuffs are stupid; and you wouldn't ever touch a Slytherin… so I knew that it was a Ravenclaw… and what better Ravenclaw than the Head Boy?"  
  
"Smart girl," said Hermione weakly.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Well, are you going to help me find something to wear?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Something red; I hate pink and white seems inappropriate."  
  
"And black wouldn't suit you." Parvati nodded knowingly then snapped her fingers in the direction of the Veela salesgirl, who had returned from the back of the store empty-handed. "A red dress, if you please, short – "  
  
"Not too short," interrupted Hermione nervously.  
  
"Around knee-length," Parvati added.  
  
"But I thought Miss disliked knee-lengths and reds?" asked the amazed salesgirl.  
  
"It's not for me… now get working on it," Parvati snapped. Looking abashed, the salesgirl turned around and practically ran back to whence she came.  
  
"You shouldn't treat them like that," said Hermione rebukingly, "and I wonder why she just takes it. I certainly wouldn't."  
  
"She takes it – they all do – because I'm one of Sorciere Mode's biggest customers and if I were to be offended by one of these Beauxbatons drop- outs, their profits would be considerably less. So I get special treatment, you might say; it's quite enjoyable, I can boss them around until their eyes are red-rimmed and tear-filled, and no one lifts a finger – ha!"  
  
"You evil, evil girl."  
  
"Hey, don't lecture me – it'll prove to be useful to you."  
  
The Veela salesgirl returned, breathing heavily because of a stitch in her side, carrying three dresses of varying lengths. Parvati threw the first two over her shoulder without a second glance – they landed in a soft puddle of the floor – "Too trashy," she said, because they were well above the knee. But the third one…  
  
It was silk, coming exactly two inches under Hermione's knees; it was not the required red but a rich terracotta color. The cloth was not the same color all over but seemed marbled. It was a dress that was plain at first glance, but when one looked closer one saw that it was remarkably beautiful – more beautiful, perhaps, than any other piece of clothing in the store. In lieu of sleeves there were two thin terracotta straps.  
  
"Goodness," breathed Hermione, "it's beautiful."  
  
"It's *perfect*," beamed Parvati, satisfied for the first time with the Veela salesgirl, who crossed her fingers hoping her luck would hold out.  
  
"It's too beautiful to be soiled by *me* wearing it," Hermione said sadly.  
  
"Nonsense," Parvati said firmly, "you'd just have to be fixed up by Lavender and me, and you'd look fantastic. You *have* to buy this dress, Hermione, it's a jewel, it's too good to pass up."  
  
Hermione leaned down to inspect the price tag, and gasped. "Oh, Lord," she exclaimed, "I couldn't possibly buy it – why, I'd be in debt for years…"  
  
"I'll buy it for you."  
  
"I couldn't - *won't* - let you!"  
  
"Think of it as a present," Parvati said. "Oh, Hermione, don't worry – or frown – I'm rich. I always have been and it's safe to say I always will be, so don't worry about me buying this for you… let me – do – there's a good girl."  
  
Hermione sighed. "Have it your way," she said, secretly overjoyed at the prospect of *owning* this magnificent river of silk. //Terry would love it.. I'll knock his socks off!//  
  
"Good!" Parvati said, jubilating, "it'll look fabulous with a pearl necklace – I've just the thing, but I'll only lend it to you, it belonged to my grandmother. And white gloves… Oh, this is just like playing dress-up with a doll that's alive!"  
  
Before Hermione completely knew what was happening, Parvati was handing a cheque to the Veela salesgirl, grinning, and pulled her out the door and off to the shoe-store, Wizarding Toes.  
  
* * *  
  
Ludo Bagman stared through the mullioned windows at the world outside of the Three Broomsticks – or what could be seen of the world outside of the Three Broomsticks, because the thick-falling snow did not let anything be easily seen.  
  
He wondered if Virginia would come back – he had instantly liked her – what he'd seen of her, of course, because she had run out of the bar a few minutes after beginning what had a promising future as an intelligent conversation – Ludo had long ago despaired of ever having one of *those*.  
  
And it didn't hurt that the girl – good Lord, she was a *girl* - had good looks: long, crimson hair – the color was obviously natural, and she didn't look like what Ludo called a scarlet harlot – that framed her oval face. Thin eyebrows arching above cynical blue eyes. Full lips, winning smile, lovely figure… Virginia had a good chance of becoming a successful model.  
  
He remembered the crashing, drowning despair that had filled her irises as soon as she'd let slip that she was sixteen years old – a *child* - despair that showed that she hadn't exactly been looking for friendship when she had come to talk to him. He didn't know what to make of it – a girl like that wanting to have a relationship with a man in his mid-thirties.  
  
He also didn't know what to make of his own love life. In some moods he was quite proud of it and himself: three wives! In others he was ashamed at his failures: three wives… Where had he gone wrong?  
  
Marilyne Richters. Twenty-one years old when he had married her; two years his junior and also his secretary. One morning, at the break of dawn, after a night of sticky-sweaty lovemaking, she had snuggled up to him and said, "Ludo?… let's get married" and just like that, they had. But after two years the bloom had gone off the rose of their love, and they had parted ways, Marilyne two months pregnant with his child, demanding 500 galleons a month in child support – when poor Ludo made only 300 – but she had dropped claims when she had miscarried.  
  
Celestina Warbeck. Two years after his divorce to Marilyne. The former salesgirl at Ye Olde Wizarde's Kinkes and Fetishes Sexe Shoppe had oozed sex appeal, and had seduced him immediately; he had married her, and convinced her to get into singing; *he* had turned her into Celestina Warbeck, the famous singing sorceress. The ungrateful wench had cheated on him, and he had divorced her twenty-nine months after the wedding.  
  
Debbie Ashford. Thirty-one to his thirty-two; that had been four years ago. Another secretary turned wife. The willowy and willing – to sleep with the boss – blonde had truly loved him and maybe still did, but she had depended too much on him and he had felt stifled. Debbie lived for him, and it was too much pressure because if she was not happy, it was his own fault and he saw it as a personal failure. He had owled her from Quebec City to tell her that it was over, and she had met him, sobbing, at the door on the day of his return, on her knees – "No, Ludo, please, love, *please…". Her pleas still rang in his ears on rainy days.  
  
Ludo sighed. There was a chance he'd never wed again – he was getting on in years, and in a few he'd be over the hill – but perhaps his riches would attract a woman; money, after all, was synonymous with security. Yes, he might wed again – but to make it legal with someone did not mean loving that someone; Ludo didn't know if he had truly *loved* any of his ex-wives; he couldn't truthfully say he had. Too high-maintenance, too unfaithful, too dependent… Was there something wrong with him, or was it only bad luck?  
  
Was Virginia different from his unlucky trio of exes? //Hardly,// whispered part of his mind, //and she's a child…// She *was* a child, but she didn't look or act it; too cynical for her own good, and she had the look of a young person who had matured too quickly, one who knew too much for innocence, one who played with fire and wanted to get burned. Her obvious knowledge of things was frightening in someone her age.  
  
He remembered the look in Virginia's eyes. Despair. An intense, hurting fear of rejection; and he had done that, he had hurt her, had made her feel bad… //I'll make it up to her,// he thought. //The next time I'll see her I'll go talk to her… and we can have another conversation… I'll make it up to her.//  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione was mildly afraid, and curious as well. Any second now they would take off the blindfold, and she would see herself. She wasn't sure she wanted to.  
  
After they had gotten back from the shoe-store – Parvati had bought her another 'present', a pair of lovely lace-up kid sandals that suited the dress perfectly – Parvati had called Lavender, and the two of them had started Operation: My Fair Lady, planning on transforming Hermione into something like the next great beauty of Hogwarts. Hermione personally thought it was unlikely they would succeed…  
  
The two of them had tossed her into a tub filled with bath oils, salts, and pearls; they had shampooed her vigorously, dressed her, brushed out and styled her thick hair, and lastly they had blindfolded her to apply makeup on her face - "It'll be a surprise, you'll see," Lavender had told her reassuringly – they had taken off the blindfold to apply mascara – accidentally sticking the mascara wand into her eye – and now Operation: My Fair Lady was over.  
  
Parvati leaned down and picked up a small mirror, holding it up to Hermione's face while Lavender's deft fingers undid the knot on the black scarf that had been a blindfold. "Open your eyes," Parvati smiled.  
  
Hermione opened her eyes. And stared. That wasn't – couldn't be – her in that looking-glass – she had never looked like that in her life – and never would – "What did you *do* to me?" she exclaimed, dismayed, not because she didn't look beautiful – she did – but because she didn't look like herself.  
  
"Why, Hermione, you don't look in the least bit happy – or grateful," Parvati said with surprise.  
  
"You look beautiful!" said Lavender. "Just lovely."  
  
"Take a closer look," Parvati suggested a tad coldly: she didn't like 'slaving away' to make a person's hidden good looks shine through, and then have that person not appreciate it – Hermione should be grateful for the occasion.  
  
Hermione took a closer look. There was a tiny bit of golden eyeshadow on her eyelids – "A whisper," as Parvati said – her lashes were thick, and long, and black, her eyebrows arched above curious amber eyes. Her lips were deep red, and there was a 'whisper' of golden blush on her cheeks – she seemed to glow. All in all, she didn't look bad… she smiled. Not bad? She looked fantastic… The dress fitted perfectly – almost *magically* - the pearl necklace on her white neck, and the white lace gloves suited it perfectly.  
  
"I suppose," conceded Hermione happily, "that it doesn't look bad.."  
  
"Doesn't look bad?" Parvati laughed. "Why, you're quite the looker, Hermione Granger, you should let me do your makeup more often… You're a pretty thing when you're done up properly. Why, you might have had a chance of outshining me!" Which was, in Parvati-speak, the ultimate compliment.  
  
Hermione blushed with pleasure, then attempted to stand up, succeeding with difficulty, not being used to such high heels. "Ooh, help me –" she had been about to fall. Parvati steadied her friend. "Walking in shoes like these will take some getting used to, I'm afraid," laughed Hermione, "but one day I'll be able to, without falling on my arse."  
  
"One day," agreed Lavender, running her fingers through her wispy blonde hair – it was teased from here to the moon, with telltale brown roots showing through. "Oh, I've got to run – Dean won't like waiting – ciao!" She blew a kiss to Parvati, waved to Hermione, picked up a bag which Hermione supposed contained Dean's Valentine's Day present, then ran out the door.  
  
"Same goes for Ron," Parvati said, "but you'll be able to walk to the Great Hall by yourself? Perfect." She picked up her present for Ron – Hermione knew it to be a chess set made entirely out of chocolate – and walked out the door, following Lavender.  
  
Not wanting to be left alone – and not wanting Terry to think she was late – Hermione looked around hastily for the gift-wrapped box in which she had put her present for Terry – 'The Short Guide to Becoming Animagi', because Terry was obsessed with Animagi and dreamed of becoming one; he learned all he could about them with a zest that worried Hermione, because at this rate he would know *everything* someday, and when one knew everything there was no place for dreams, and if one didn't dream one might as well be dead.  
  
Hermione walked out the door, with one hand holding the gift-box, and with the other smoothing the silken folds of her dress anxiously, with sweaty palms, Alanis Morissette's 'Head over feet' playing in her mind. It seemed to her that it applied to her relationship with Terry.  
  
You've already won me over in spite of me  
  
Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet  
  
And don't be surprised I love you for all that you are  
  
I couldn't help it  
  
It's all your fault  
  
She could hear the laughter and talk from the Great Hall; she had reached the staircase that, if descended, would lead her where she was supposed to be; and she could see Terry waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase, but he couldn't see her. With a smile, she rushed down the stairs – but made a literal faux pas, twisting her foot, and fell headfirst towards the bottom – towards Terry.  
  
"Aah!" she shrieked out of fear, sticking her arms in front of her instinctively, dropping the boxes. Terry whipped around at her anguished scream, saw her falling, and reflexively ran forward – he caught her and breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"My God, Hermione, are you all right?"  
  
"I am, I am," Hermione said, giggling – the giggles made Terry think that perhaps she was mildly hysterical – "but the book might not be."  
  
"The book?"  
  
Hermione gestured towards the box on the floor. It had opened, and 'The Short Guide to Becoming Animagi' had slid two feet across the floor. "What a silly thing to do – try and run down the stairs in shoes like these!" she said, a bit angry with herself. "Could have broken my neck. Thank God you caught me!" She stooped to pick up the thick book – the title was somewhat deceptive – and as she straightened up again Terry noticed her makeup and clothes for the first time.  
  
"You look… what did you do to your face?"  
  
His tone made Hermione think that he didn't like it; she self-consciously touched her cheek. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You look… gorgeous."  
  
"You seem surprised… do you mean that I'm usually ugly?"  
  
"No, of course n – "  
  
"You *can* do great things with a wand."  
  
"What I meant was that you don't usually look like… this. But you're always beautiful."  
  
"Parvati and Lavender attacked me with their beauty products, and this is their result, so any beef you have take to them," Hermione laughed, handing him his presents.  
  
"You shouldn't have – I got you something, but fool as I am, I forgot it in my room – I'll go get it later – 'A Short Guide to Becoming Animagi'!" He smiled broadly and leaned down to kiss her. "How lovely of you – thank you! You must be psychic, this was exactly what I wanted."  
  
Hermione smiled at him, then remembered something and said, "But what'll we do with your present while we dance?"  
  
"Oh –" said Terry. "Uh… I'll take them to my dormitory and bring down your present, since I'll be going there…"  
  
"But then you'll have to go back to take them to your room *again" Hermione pointed out practically. "So we might as well both go to your room and come back down."  
  
"True," said Terry, "how right you are. Yes, we might as well." He gallantly offered her his arm. She took it with a grin, and the two of them made their way to Ravenclaw Tower, beaming at each other.  
  
* * *  
  
"Seamus, for the love of God stop nibbling on my ear!" demanded Ron shrilly, trying to push the Irish lad off him. "I declare you're getting more sex-kittenish every day."  
  
"That's right, I'm a kitten," agreed Seamus with a roguish wink and smile, "try and make me purr…" He sidled up to Ron and nestled his chin in Ron's shoulder. "You know you want to…" he added with a quiet laugh, snaking an arm around the redhead's torso.  
  
"Seamus, *geroff* me! Parvati might be coming any minute!" hissed Ron nervously, shoving the too-close-for-comfort Seamus with his elbow.  
  
"That's right, Parvati. What a party-pooper that girl is," Seamus remarked.  
  
"Look, I'm planning to split up with her tonight."  
  
"Really?" A pleased smile with hidden meanings rewarded Ron for finally uttering the long-awaited words.  
  
"Really… So I don't want you to try and climb me as if I was a tree while I don't know where she is. She might see us. I want to tell her myself, not to have her be a witness to…"  
  
"My affections?"  
  
"Something like that," approved Ron. "Oh God, here she comes…"  
  
"Remember, it's experimenting…" And with those words of wisdom, Seamus disappeared amongst the crowd. Gone within two seconds. Ron, watching Parvati approach him – looking piranha-like to him, albeit stunning – but tall! Taller than Ron! – missed his warmth already.  
  
"Ron, there you are. Weren't you supposed to meet me by the Fat Lady?"  
  
"Oh… was I?" Ron noticed a small pink bag with matching bow in her hand, and he had no doubts that the contents were for him. A fresh wave of guilt engulfed him and nearly knocked him breathless; Parvati obviously cared for him, since she had gotten him a present – no doubt it was something tasteful – and he here was preparing to dump her – it didn't *feel* like experimenting, no matter what Seamus said to reassure him… "Parvati, I've got to talk to you." He took her free hand and led her out of the Great Hall and into a dark corridor. She smiled, and he realized that she thought he wanted to make out with her - //If you only knew,// he said to himself.  
  
"Well? What is it?" she breathed, tousling his hair affectionately; she leaned down – leaned down! How much taller *was* she? Maybe it was just the high heels… - and kissed his ear.  
  
"I've got to tell you something…" Ron glanced shiftily around, uneasy, then burst out, "I… I can't – this relationship isn't working, Parvati."  
  
"What on earth do you mean?" Parvati asked, with a short tinkling laugh that showed she understood Ron's words but refused to accept them, "it's working perfectly."  
  
"No, it's not. I can't see you anymore."  
  
"Buh… buh…" spluttered Parvati incoherently. She regained her powers of speech and told him, "You can and you will!"  
  
"Parvati, stop it. It's over."  
  
Her mouth widened, she was struck dumb; but she abruptly closed it and said shrilly, "Why?!" She reached forward and grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, shaking him.  
  
"There's… s-someone else."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Parvati – " He lifted his eyes. She was red in the face, visibly furious, a volcano on the edge of eruption… //Run for cover!!//  
  
"WHAAT?!!" she shrieked, as though she was a banshee – weren't banshees the thing that Seamus feared most? – every cell in her body emanating an immense amount of fury, her eyes burning like glowing coals; she literally shook with anger.  
  
"Parvati, calm down – " Ron stammered; he was rightfully shocked; he had not expected her to react like this.  
  
"I will NOT calm down! And I'll tell you a thing or two…" Stopping for breath, she flung the fuschia gift-bag on the floor, and stepped on it. Ron watched with strange fascination the chocolate splintering under Parvati wrathful heel, a pair of pawns becoming a brownish blob, similar to old chewing gum stuck to the stone floor. "There are families it PAYS to associate to, Ronald Weasley, and mine was one of them! The Patils have millions of galleons to back us up, they have a reputation, and I'm a fourteenth-generation pureblood, while YOU'RE a ninth-generation! An alliance with the Patils could have made you somebody, but piss one of us off, you piss ALL of us off, and we BREAK you."  
  
"Parv –" Ron interjected when the girl had for a second time stopped for breath, but she cut him off.  
  
"YOU'RE A FUCKING FOOL! Look at me – LOOK at me! – I'm the sex goddess of this fucking place, the most wanted girl in this castle, I have students willing to do ANYTHING to gain my favor, there's students in here who'd be happy to LICK MY SHOES! Everyone wants me, and you HAD me, and you cheated on me! You must be either unconscious or stupid!"  
  
"Parv –"  
  
"Shut up! I'm not finished yet. As I said before, my family is extremely well liked – as the Malfoys – but YOUR family…"  
  
"Parv!"  
  
"SHUT UP! Do you have any clue why your family is so apparently popular? Well, I'll tell you! People were so used to pitying you and being nice to you when you were poor that they can't get out of the habit now that you've got your hands on some gold!"  
  
"PARVATI!"  
  
She smirked at him cruelly, looking glad to have gotten all that out of her system, but still furious; and before he completely knew what was happening she had raised her hand and slapped him expertly across the face. "Oww," he muttered, clutching his smarting cheek.  
  
"I hate you," she hissed, and with that she turned around and ran down the hallway; she disappeared at the bend and Ron, now thoroughly downhearted - //She certainly took that the wrong way…// - made his way back to the Great Hall, where Seamus and the party were.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry, wearing one of Draco's angora – and extremely hot – turtlenecks, was following the blonde into the Great Hall. Draco, looking literally drop- dead gorgeous – Harry could have sworn he heard a 'thud' while Draco passed through a crowd – made his way to the snack table to get punch. Harry leaned against a wall, trying not to perspire – he shuddered to think of Draco's reaction if he found out that Harry sweated in *his* clothes – leaned against a wall and waited for him.  
  
A Hufflepuff belle walking by turned around, and her gaze happened to fall on Harry; apparently appreciating the way the young man looked in white, she smiled widely at him, showing a brace-studded smile – obviously, she was either half-blood or of no wizard blood like Hermione, if her parents wouldn't get her teeth fixed by magic.  
  
"Hi," she said warmly, leaning onto the wall next to him,  
  
"Oh, hello," said Harry politely. "Um, what House are you in?"  
  
"Hufflepuff. My name's Pandora Mulligan." Another smile; Harry wondered what her braces were for, as her teeth seemed straight to him. //Then again, what judge am I of girls' teeth? I've never had anything to do with girls.//  
  
Pandora cozied up to him, invitingly warm. "I never got around to telling you, but you were fantastic in Quidditch, last year, the way you won the Cup!"  
  
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, suddenly bashful.  
  
"Are you playing Quidditch for England next year?"  
  
"I haven't decided yet."  
  
"You should!" Pandora said emphatically, "It would be a sin to waste talent like yours."  
  
Harry searched the recesses of his mind for an interesting topic; he didn't want to spend his time discussing his Quidditch prowess with this girl he'd barely met – he didn't want to give her the impression that he was an egotist. "Um… you're the first person I've seen in robes in here so far."  
  
"Yeah, everybody's wearing Muggle clothes," Pandora said. "It's the only dance they got permission from Dumbledore to, so they're taking advantage of it."  
  
"Oh." Harry looked up and saw Draco nearing, Blaise in tow – the girl looked particularly gothy, dressed in black Muggle clothes from head to toe, dark hair not done up in any style, silver ankh on silver chain hanging from her neck. He decided he'd have to end this conversation quickly. "Sorry – but I'll see you later, Pandora." He walked away quickly, not seeing her hurt look, and bumped into Hermione, who had come back downstairs to get food for her and Terry. "Oh – hi, Herm."  
  
"Harry," acknowledged Hermione.  
  
Was it simply his imagination, or was her greeting slightly cold? Harry felt uneasy. "Um… are you having fun?"  
  
"I saw you flirting with Pandora Mulligan," said Hermione, ignoring the question completely. "That girl is trouble, Harry, and I don't think that Draco would particularly appreciate your flirting with *anyone*."  
  
"I wasn't flirting," Harry started to say, then what Hermione had said sunk in. "W-what?… you… you k-…"  
  
"Yes, I know," Hermione said with a little laugh, "Did you think you could put it past me?" She picked up a food-laden platter, said, "Watch who you wink at in the future," and walked off, while Harry, mute with surprise, had not a word to say.  
  
"Harry, *there* you are!" said Draco, creeping up behind Harry. When the latter turned around, he planted a kiss on his lips – his own were like fresh-smelling velvet cushions. Blaise looked away in disgust: she didn't particularly like Harry.  
  
"Please. Get a room."  
  
"Mmrff," Draco muttered, waving a hand at her, which meant, 'shut up.'  
  
"I mean it, not *everyone* is a voyeur and wants to see you get it on with Potter – "  
  
"Mrrrff."  
  
"And I certainly don't. If you think you do, I'm wrong."  
  
"Mrff."  
  
"Mmmmmmhrf!"  
  
"Honestly – you little exhibitionist." Blaise looked around idly.  
  
"Mmrfrf."  
  
"Draco – don't you think he needs some air now? His face is turning purple."  
  
Draco broke away. "Is it?" he said in surprise. "Good Lord, Harry we'll have to work on your, ah, endurance."  
  
"If you want to survive in a relationship with Draco, you'll have to be able to go without air for long periods of time," agreed Blaise with a catty smirk, "his mouth is like a vacuum."  
  
"Hey," said Draco. "I resent that."  
  
"That's why I said it," Blaise told him; she reached out a hand and ruffled his hair. Harry gaped: the Golden Rule with Draco was 'never touch the hair' and he had witnessed Goyle sent up to the infirmary covered in purpling bruises; he had muttered something about 'Malfoy's hair'. But Draco only pushed her hand away in annoyance – //Since they're cousins and all, she can get away with it,// Harry thought. "Well, I'm going," Blaise added, and then she simply Disapparated – without a pop.  
  
"Wha-?" exclaimed Harry. "You can't Disapparate inside of Hogwarts!"  
  
"That's not Disapparating," Draco told him, pulling closer – heading towards the dance floor – "That's shimmering. The definition is a 'displacement and replacement of atoms in a different place'." Seeing Harry's blank look, he decided to educate him, and said, "It was mostly used by wizards in the seventh century, up until the eleventh and then they invented Apparating. Since it wasn't used for so long everyone forgot about it, and so you can do it at Hogwarts. There was a bit about it in a book in the Restricted Section, Blaise found it in second year, she got the note from Lockhart – an arsehole if there ever was one, but he proved to be useful."  
  
"Oh. Could you teach me?" Harry said hopefully.  
  
"Couldn't if I wanted to – and I can't say I do," Draco said meanly, "Blaise found about it Second year and it took her years to learn. I could try and teach you if she would agree, after we leave school – but by then you'll know how to Apparate."  
  
"Oh," said Harry, disappointed for a second – but then Draco's nearness made up for it. "No, Draco, no no no no… I don't want to *dance*!"  
  
"You're going to."  
  
"No!"  
  
"I didn't let you wear my clothes for nothing."  
  
"No!"  
  
Draco neatly maneuvered Harry onto the dance floor with a smirk. "You have no choice, love," he said with a short but bubbly laugh – it surprised Harry, since no aspect of Draco could be qualified as 'bubbly'; it also was the first time the word 'love' had fallen from the blonde's tongue and into Harry's ear.  
  
He gasped slightly. "Draco, *no*," he pleaded, forgetting that pleading with Draco was useless; and if Draco knew what Harry didn't want to do, he would find a way to make Harry do that precise thing. "No no no no…"  
  
"Do be quiet, you're spoiling my fun," Draco told him.  
  
They began to dance – it was a painfully slow song for Harry. Very soon after the pair's appearance on the dance, gasps could be heard throughout the room; the sea of dancers parted, and they had the whole floor to themselves. Harry, in the extreme of discomfort, could feel the eyes of what seemed like the whole school – in truth it was only the seventh year – boring holes into his head. "Draco," he hissed. Whispers fused inside the room: "It's Potter – and *Malfoy*!" "My Lord, I never thought this would happen!" "I always had a hunch Potter was gay…" "Yeah, Malfoy always seemed queer…" Draco's eyes widened in indignation at the last one.  
  
"Draco, I *told* you it was a bad idea," Harry muttered. The animosity in the Great Hall was palpable and directed at them; Harry wondered why they were so angry. //All we're doing is dancing,// he told himself.  
  
Draco tightened his hold on Harry's waist. "Don't leave. That would be the worst thing to do." A gleam in his eyes showed he had a strategy, and Harry could see that he too was amazed at the seemingly reasonless anger in the room. "You'd think they'd never seen two guys dancing," he added quietly, "but I saw Finnigan and some Ravenclaw shaking their booh-tays a bit earlier." Suddenly, inexplicably, he laughed – softly, heard only if one was an inch or two away from Draco, as was Harry. "I know why," Draco said, "the anger – all that."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Harry, love, we two are the most desired guys in the whole of Hogwarts. People have chased after us for years – yes, after you too, you were just too thick to know it –"  
  
"Hey," said Harry.  
  
"No offence, of course – but, ah, you can imagine that, were they to find out that we were taken – both of us, a double blow – our fanclubs would be most displeased."  
  
"That makes sense," Harry agreed, relieved beyond words that the hostility in the room was not *his* fault – it was nothing he had done – it was nothing he could be blamed for. The band, unconscious of anything that had gone on in the room, kept playing, and the slow song turned into a fast one. Harry danced with a lighter heart with this knowledge, not remembering when he had had more fun in his life.  
  
Slowly, slowly, one by one, the room drained itself of its occupants, until only they were left, dancing, in the middle.  
  
* * *  
  
WHEW! I'm glad that's over, as much as I enjoyed writing it. Now, I have a question for you precious readers – and especially for the faithful readers- reviewers (yes, all three of you! ^_^) since they've been there since the beginning.  
  
Should I take more time to write longer chapters like this one (12 pages +) or should I write shorter chapters (around 8 pages) and update more often? (Actually, as often as I have been updating.)  
  
Thanks in advance to all those who will answer… your opinions are invaluable. 


	6. Chapter VI

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money from it. The devil made me do it.  
  
Bondagechic: No, definitely not the last chapter. I think it's gonna be at least a 15-chapter fic, so don't worry ^_^  
  
Chrisseee667: Thanks, I do update soon – in my opinion – but tardiness in new chapter uploads can be blamed on my sucky connection.  
  
Jace: ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ Thank you!  
  
Author's Note: This is the first chapter ever to be dedicated… and the dedication goes to…  
  
To Gwen, for pointing out that dancing did make Harry sweat in Draco's angora sweater. Thanks, otherwise I wouldn't have noticed. ^_^  
  
Now, all you jealous disgruntled reviewers going, "Hey, why did SHE get it dedicated to her? I reviewed more/my reviews were longer!" relax, you'll get your turn sooner or later. If not in C&B, in the Sequel. (Did you ever doubt there would be a sequel?)  
  
* * *  
  
Ludo Bagman, teeth fairly dancing in his mouth because of the cold, made his way slowly towards the gates of Hogwarts Castle, on the pretext that he meant to talk to Dumbledore and arrange the details of his stay at Hogwarts for the few months until the awarding of the Quidditch cup. In truth the details had already been arranged – Dumbledore had seen to that. Ludo wanted to see Virginia again – the girl was like a guilty conscience, always preying at the bottom of his mind – and he had an excuse: when she had hurriedly exited the Three Broomsticks, he had followed her – unbeknownst to her – pointed his wand at her and said, "Accio, handbag". Having something of hers in his possession ensured that she would have to talk to him at least once more, if she wished to recover her handbag.  
  
Oof – he had arrived, thank goodness, the cold had been hard to bear. He raised an almost frostbitten fist to knock on the door, but it opened before he had even touched the wood. McGonnagall stood, gray-haired, wrinkled, but still draconian, just as he remembered her from his schooldays. "Good afternoon, Professor McGonnagall – or is it Minerva now?"  
  
"Professor will do just fine," she said sharply, moving as to let him pass. "Dumbledore awaits you in his office. I trust you know the way?" A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of her lips. The last sentence was an allusion to the many hours Ludo had spent, as a trouble-making boy, in Dumbledore's office.  
  
Ludo smiled politely; he had never liked McGonnagall and she had never liked him either. "Yes, I do, Professor, but I don't know the password – unless it hasn't been changed since – let's see… nineteen years."  
  
"It's 'wooly mittens'," she said and vanished, as Homer was fond of saying – having turned herself into a tabby cat.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry, awake for an hour, was watching Draco sleep, reflecting on how misleading the boy's angelic face was. It was a refreshing change to see Draco's delicate features untwisted by a smirk. He nursed his bruised nose and wondered how on Earth he'd get back to Gryffindor tower.  
  
Although he knew, deep down, that it was not the best thing to do, he had slept in Draco's dormitory, Crabbe being suspended for three days for insulting Nearly Headless Nick's' mother – even the dead have feelings, he had discovered. Harry had had to place Memory Charms on Goyle, Avery and Wannerford – the latter had fought back tooth and nail, hence Harry's bleeding nose. All this trouble because he was too afraid to face Ron – Harry knew that Ron, after his less-than-smooth break-up with Parvati, had re-entered the Great Hall long enough to grab Seamus and leave with him. Thus the redhead hadn't seen anything, but the rumors must have gotten back to him by now.  
  
At least he was alone with Draco – after the Memory Charms had taken effect, the three ape-like boys that Draco shared a dormitory with had wandered down to the Slytherin dungeons, muttering something about Easter Eggs. Clearly the Charms had been stronger than Harry had thought they'd be.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
Harry jumped up in surprise; while he'd been brooding and staring out the window, Draco had awoken. "'Lo, Draco."  
  
The blonde pouted up at him. "Can't believe you preferred to sleep in Crabbe's bed." In his mouth the name was synonymous with 'disgusting, blundering, gorilla-like ponce'.  
  
"Well, I –"  
  
"You could have slept with *me* and few would pass up that chance." Harry blushed beet red and Draco laughed at his innocence. "My Lord, you're certainly a prude. But my rule is that either you sleep in your own bed, or –" he gave Harry a squelching look – "you sleep in *my* bed, but not in my roommate's bed!"  
  
"You're.. right, I suppose. But," Harry pointed out, "I would rather have slept in my own bed."  
  
"To each his own," Draco said philosophically, getting out of bed. He stood by the window, looking out at the thawing ice covering the lake; in the distance the Whomping Willow thrashed violently about. The early morning light framed his profile and for a few seconds he *did* look like an angel, with sunrays behind his blonde head – Harry's breath was taken away. Looking at this Draco – early-morning just-got-up where's-my-coffee angel Draco – made Harry want to slam his against a wall – gently, of course, as to not bruise him – and…  
  
His fantasies were interrupted by Draco picking up the fuzzy angora sweater off the back of the chair Harry had carelessly tossed it on; he examined it critically, head cocked to the side, half-pout, frowning. "Harry," he said, glaring at the Gryffindor as though he was found guilty of murder, "you have *sweated* on my sweater!"  
  
"I… did?"  
  
"You did," Draco said in a tone that boded no good towards his love, "and it was *angora*."  
  
"Well… I *told* you it was too hot a sweater to be worn to a dance, but –"  
  
"You sweat on my clothes and try to blame me for it?!" Draco looked positively outraged; he threw the sweater over his shoulder and actually growled – Harry had heard him growl before, but the circumstances had been, ahem, different, and more, ah, favorable, than these. Suddenly – without any warning whatsoever – he lunged at Harry, who, not expecting such an odd attack, fell to the floor, Draco on top of him.  
  
Draco on top of him.  
  
Harry blushed again, finding the Slytherin's warm weight thoroughly enjoyable, but before he had a chance to do something even more enjoyable (nudge, nudge) Draco began pummeling him with his pale fists. It didn't hurt Harry – Draco was weaker than he'd ever admit – but it certainly was surprising. As a counter-attack of sorts, he firmly grabbed Draco's arms, just above his elbows, and shoved him off; the result was that Harry was momentarily on top. But Draco, stubborn as a mule – though prettier than one – kneed Harry in the stomach, and took advantage of the latter's gasp of pain to change positions.  
  
Draco on top.  
  
Harry managed to push Draco off; but he had to shake him as one might shake an apple tree in the hopes that one might dislodge a fruit.  
  
Harry on top.  
  
Draco shrieked wildly and kneed Harry again – in the crotch this time.  
  
Draco on top.  
  
Harry saw that the only way to get Draco off him this time would be to pull his hair – and he would never do that – if Draco acted like *this* for a sweated-in sweater, he would likely bite Harry's hand off if he even *touched* the hair. He attempted something else: he shoved Draco off for a split second, both of them fighting like wildcats, and they rolled down the floor and into the bathroom, where the rolling stopped as soon as Harry's head went *thonk* against the toilet bowl.  
  
"Geroff," Harry grunted.  
  
"EEEEEEEEEE," shrieked Draco wildly.  
  
"Geroff!" But Draco would not geroff, merely went on shrieking wildly; Harry believed in making the best of each situation, and what would anyone do if they found themselves with Draco Malfoy, shrieking like a hellcat, on top of them?  
  
That's what Harry did, and Draco stopped shrieking long enough to insert his tongue in Harry's mouth, all anger at sweaty sweaters vanished but not forgotten.  
  
"Mmmrff."  
  
"Mrrrff," went Draco, mentally assessing how comfortably two people would fit in the bathtub in the corner.  
  
"Mmrhmm."  
  
"Mrffhm," went Draco, having decided that the two of them should fit comfortably enough.  
  
* * *  
  
Ron Weasley was pushed up against a bookshelf, Seamus Finnigan nibbling on his neck intently. Ron felt extremely guilty, but Seamus was impossible to resist with his big turquoise eyes and his quirky smile and his fingers that seemed to be everywhere - *everywhere* - at once.  
  
They were in the library because, it being a Hogsmeade weekend, it was completely devoid of human life except them – Hermione, for an inexplicable reason, was not there, and Mrs. Pince had taken a day off for the first time in her life. Also, as Seamus had pointed out, if Parvati were searching for Ron, desiring criminal revenge, the last place she'd ever look for him would be the library. Ron Weasley was noted for hating the library.  
  
"You smell like grass," Seamus said, his voice nearly a purr.  
  
"Quidditch training," Ron said absently. Seamus, satisfied, dived back into his neck, but a few seconds later he looked at Ron pointedly.  
  
"I feel like I'm doing all the work here. You're just standing there."  
  
"Guilt," Ron explained.  
  
"To HELL with your guilt," the Irish lad exclaimed heatedly, "that Parvati got what was coming to her – she was two-timing ya – and the way she's carrying on is ridiculous. Won't leave her room. She probably won't even leave her dormitory for classes! Well, I'll tell you this – I hope she fails seventh year and never be a proper witch!"  
  
"Seamus!"  
  
"Honestly – if you're going to brood about her all the time, TELL me so I can get on with my business. I don't want to stay here wasting my time giving you lovebites that aren't wanted." He crossed his arms and looked at Ron disapprovingly. "I'm tired of Parvati always spoiling my fun. You dumped her. It's over. Finished. She's out of the picture! Get it?"  
  
"Give me time to get used to it –"  
  
"You have to get used to it? The only difference between this and what we were doing before is that you should have been feeling guilty *then*, but you didn't, and you're feeling guilty *now*, when you shouldn't! You even 'fessed up that you were cheating on her!"  
  
"That was below the belt."  
  
"YOU'RE carrying on ridiculously too," Seamus told him, "and I won't have it. I'm going to find someone else to snog until you get over that Ice Bitch." And he spun around and practically ran out of the library.  
  
"Yeah, that's right, go find someone else to snog," Ron called after him cruelly. "You little slut," he added under his breath, not believing it, and wishing he wasn't alone. It seemed that he always lost no matter what the situation was.  
  
He hadn't seen the one, tiny, crystalline tear clinging to Seamus' eyelashes.  
  
* * *  
  
"Dumbledore." Ludo's tone was cordial although his heart was beating at a faster rate than usual. Dumbledore was old, but he was certainly no fool – he might know – probably *did* know – that there was more to Ludo's visit than business.  
  
"Ludo," said Dumbledore, equally cordial.  
  
"I came to –" what could he say? He was incapable of lying – Dumbledore had been like a father to him back when his real one had been drunk – "I, uh, found this." He held up the purse as evidence. "In the bar. Three, uh, Broomsticks. I'd like to give it back."  
  
"Certainly. Do you now who it belongs to?"  
  
"A certain Virginia Weasley."  
  
Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow, unused to hearing the young lady in question called by her full name. "All right. I'll send her right down. Now if you'll excuse me, Ludo, I have a pile of boring paperwork to do." He got up from his winged armchair in the staff room and left, leaving Ludo to wait for Ginny.  
  
She arrived ten minutes later, disheveled in every way, in a wrinkled robe, obviously it was a bad hair day for her; but she looked pretty nonetheless. She paled when she saw him, all too conscious of the way she looked, then blushed, managing nonetheless to say "Hi" without stuttering, which was a small miracle.  
  
"Hello to you too," he said jovially, holding up the small handbag, "I believe this belongs to you."  
  
"Yes… yes, it does," said she, running a hand through her crimson locks in a desperate attempt to smooth them.  
  
"You must have dropped it in the Three Broomsticks by mistake."  
  
"Probably," she agreed weakly. "I have a… habit of dropping things. I'm quite clumsy. But you shouldn't have bothered. Madam Rosmerta has a Lost and Found."  
  
"It's no bother," Ludo said. "Shall we go for a walk?"  
  
Ginny smiled for the first time that day a wide show of happiness that stretched from ear to ear; it warmed the cockles of his heart. "I'd like that," she said, "it's still a Hogsmeade weekend." Sixth-and seventh-years were permitted to visit Hogsmeade whenever they liked on weekends – which meant Friday evenings and all day Saturday and Sunday. "But let me freshen up –" and she bolted before Ludo had time to stop her.  
  
He sat down to wait once more, thinking happy thoughts, and she reappeared minutes later. New robe, hair slicked back in a small hard knob at the back of her head – the amount of spray she'd used on it would have made a new hole in the ozone layer – makeup clogging but beautifying her pores; it was an improvement. "Shall we?" she said, opening the door and half-stepping out.  
  
"We shall," answered Ludo with a triumphant grin.  
  
* * *  
  
Seamus Finnigan was sitting cross-legged on Hermione Granger's bed, absentmindedly fingering the bedspread, pouring his heart out to his bushy- haired House-mate. Hermione always had good, practical advice – although no aspect of Seamus could be labeled good or practical.  
  
"So tell me what the problem is," Hermione said, a bit surprised that Seamus was there – happy-go-lucky Seamus who never seemed to have a problem or a care in the world, coming to her for advice?  
  
"Do you know how *frustrating* it is," demanded Seamus, "to try and make out with a guy who only thinks about his ex-girlfriend who he's just dumped?"  
  
Hermione's mouth formed an O of surprise. "You… you're making out with Ron?"  
  
"Yes, and I do hate Parvati, she spoils the fun because Ronnie's always thinking of her." Seamus pouted ridiculously.  
  
"Well," said Hermione, recovering from the small shock, "you should, uh, give him time. It *was* a three-month relationship, and that's the longest Ron was ever with a girl – or a, uh, guy. Be… understanding." But as she sad that she doubted that Seamus *could* be understanding – it certainly didn't seem so, most of the time.  
  
"But he's been seeing me for almost as long as he was with *her*," Seamus said.  
  
A pause. Disbelief poured through Hermione, tinted with anger. "Seamus Finnigan! Don't tell me you've been fucking Ron while he was dating Parvati?!" She grabbed the sand-haired youth by the shoulders and shook him vigorously, as she would a medicine bottle, as though she was trying to shake some sense into him – which was not likely. "How *could* you? I knew you were a slut, but I didn't think you'd be capable of – of…"  
  
"Well, don't get your knickers in a twist." Seamus rubbed the painful spots on his shoulders where her fingers had gripped him, where her fingernails had pierced his skin. "You haven't even given me a chance to explain, Hermi, and that's not fair."  
  
"What is there *to* explain?" demanded Hermione indignantly, "and don't call me Hermi."  
  
"When she started to go out with him – in mid-November, methinks it was – Ron was happy, of course, cause, well, you know, every guy wants Parvati," Seamus began, but Hermione interrupted somewhat rudely:  
  
"Then I don't see why he would want you too, in the bargain."  
  
"Let me finish!" Seamus pouted at her, then took up his tale. "But then she began to get too much for him – you know how Parvati is, you shared a room with her for six years. But Ron didn't know what to do – I mean, she's not the sort of girl you dump, Parvati ain't. And she wasn't particularly affectionate either."  
  
"That's a lie," Hermione said, "she was always… draped over him, and touching him, and…"  
  
"But she wasn't the cuddling sort," Seamus said.  
  
"Oh, and you have a reputation for being the cuddling sort," Hermione said, voice fairly dripping with sarcasm and venom.  
  
"Well, he had to get lovin' somewhere," he protested, "and he couldn't call it quits with her because she's like an Amazon, Parvati is, and she looks like she could… rip your head off if you crossed her. She wants to have her cake and eat it too."  
  
"And Ron didn't *want* to be eaten?" inquired Hermione, still sarcastic.  
  
"Not by her," Seamus told her solemnly.  
  
"Ah." Hermione gently shoved the lad off her bed and towards the door. "Out. Now."  
  
"But you still haven't told me what to do!" cried Seamus, grabbing a bedpost and holding on for dear life, while Hermione stubbornly pulled at him. "Stop! You're going to tear my robes! Hermiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"  
  
"Don't call me Hermi!" shrieked she, dropping him.  
  
He scuttled back on the bed, firmly hanging on to the bedpost. "Here I stay until you give me proper advice."  
  
"If I were you," Hermione said wearily. "I wouldn't stick around until he forgets Parvati – he might be tired of you just then." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "I'd give him an ultimatum: either the memories he has of Parvati, or you, and if he has brains he'll choose –" she shut her mouth abruptly, on the point of saying 'you', but on second thought was it wise to choose Seamus when one had a choice? "And… well, cool it off for a while, don't go… cuddling with him or anything. Keep your distances and perhaps he'll come to his senses…" again she had that feeling that if Ron did come to his senses he wouldn't choose to date the school slut.  
  
"Thanks, Hermi," Seamus exclaimed delightedly, leaping off and engulfing her in a bear hug.  
  
"Don't call me Hermi," she said, patting him awkwardly on the back.  
  
Pause.  
  
"You can let go now," she prompted.  
  
"Right. Sorry. It's just that you're so warm…"  
  
"Out!" she said grimly, opening the door in case he was so thick that he didn't know where the exit was.  
  
* * *  
  
"Whew," said Harry with feeling.  
  
"There's still the matter of my sweater," Draco told him, smirking, digging his chin into Harry's shoulder with a half-purr.  
  
"Oh, come on, Draco," said Harry, exasperatedly, "it's just a sweater."  
  
"It was *angora*," persisted Draco, running his long – *how* long Harry had learned that afternoon – pale fingers along the Gryffindor's torso. "And you should thank your lucky stars that I lent it to you for the Dance."  
  
"Draco…" Harry attempted to sit up, Draco still entwined around him, then gave up – it was far more fun to stay here than to leave, no? "I'm not blaming you –" he certainly didn't want Draco to jump, fists flying, on him again – "but I never even *wanted* to go to the Dance. You forced me to, just like you forced me to wear that sweater – so perhaps it is your fault."  
  
The silver Fair One was, amazingly, not angered. "But you had fun at the Dance, did you not?" he asked with an expression that was half-smile half- pout, "and you had fun *after*, didn't you?" He laughed at Harry's pink blush, and traced it with a finger. "You did have fun… of course you did." He swooped down and kissed Harry's sun-browned neck.  
  
"I should go," whispered Harry.  
  
"How? The common room's full of people," Draco told him, frowning as Harry grabbed a towel and began to wipe the sweat off. "Did you bring your Invisibility Cloak?"  
  
"No," sad Harry thoughtfully.  
  
"I'll lend you mine," sighed Draco, getting out of the bathtub, "but I do wish you could stay. It's Saturday…"  
  
"Quidditch Training," said Harry regretfully, letting the damp towel fall to the floor, "otherwise I'd stay… but Quidditch…"  
  
"Is more important than me?" completed Draco, pouting seductively.  
  
"That's not what I said."  
  
"Is it what you *meant*?"  
  
"No! God, you can be paranoid sometimes," said Harry, "of course I'd rather be with you, but I do love Quidditch…"  
  
"You're *obsessed* with Quidditch is more likely," Draco growled, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his storm-cloud eyes.  
  
"It was my first love," quipped Harry dreamily – it wasn't strictly true, because the curly-haired brunette across the street had enchanted him when he was nine years old, way before Quidditch or Wizards or Draco had existed for him. He had never seen that curly-haired brunette again…  
  
"Quidditch or Wood?" demanded Draco jealously.  
  
"Wood?! Honestly, Draco, you *are* paranoid! He was four years older than me!"  
  
"They do say that age is nothing but a number," insisted the young Malfoy.  
  
"Draaaaaaco. Stop it."  
  
"I have a right to know."  
  
"There's nothing *to* know."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"For crissakes, Draco!" Harry exploded.  
  
"Don't you dare yell at me!" said Draco shrilly.  
  
"I'm not!" bellowed Harry.  
  
"You are!" shouted Draco.  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"Are too!"  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"Are too!" shrieked Draco, and Harry brought his hands to his ears for protection – he was surprised that the mirrors weren't broken, or that a wild bunch of dogs hadn't leaped into the room, slobbering. "Right," Draco continued, calmly, "I'm going to find that Cloak." He left, in a dignified way, while Harry remained anchored there, naked. After a few seconds he bent down and picked up the towel.  
  
* * *  
  
Right, so here are the results of the Longer-Later vs. Shorter-More Often case:  
  
Three people (Gwen, Exis and Jace) voted for Shorter-More Often, and only one (Coriander) were in favor of Longer-Later.  
  
Thus the decision is to make more 8-pageish chapters. It's too stressful to put out long chapters, anyhoo. It was straining my nerves. Errghlack.  
  
"Gimme an…. R!"  
  
"Gimme an E!"  
  
"Gimme a V!"  
  
"Gimme an I!"  
  
"Gimme another E!"  
  
"Gimme a W!"  
  
"R…E…V…I…E…W…."  
  
"That's the way you spell 'review'!" 


	7. Chapter VII

Author's note: Wow. Seventy-five reviews. It's a record – but can someone tell me what's wrong with Silver Death? That one got 2 reviews, and I don't know why. (By the way, if that sounded like a complaint, it's not really.)  
  
Dedicated with affection to Whitebearwrites! Why? Scroll down to see!  
  
Eve: Glad you liked it ^_^  
  
Bondagechic: Harry is… is…. Not wimpy, but he can't fight back when it comes to Draco. That's sorta what SD is about… not fighting back so long it ruins the lurve.  
  
SoulSister: I know, but it can get mighty confusing sometimes – "Who should I do next? There's already a Hermione bit and an H/D bit…"  
  
Moi: I don't mind at all – and I do usually update often.  
  
Rokjai: I will keep it up. No worries about that.  
  
DarkNess: Define floofy.  
  
Coriander: Bitch-ass? That's a nice saying!  
  
Whitebearwrites: The humor is 'oh-so-excellent'? Just for that, I love you. I'm dedicating this to you.  
  
Gwen: *huggles back* It *is* a weird thought… So I can blame that part on you! Seamus is apparently a slut because he's Irish. I asked one of my friends who's part Irish and she said that's why he's characterized as a slut.  
  
Raven Adams: I hope it gets better too! ^_~  
  
Whippy: Kind hearted innocent Ginny? Nooooo! She's not kind-hearted – not cold-hearted either – but she most definitely not innocent! She wants to be Parvati! Would you call Parvati innocent?  
  
Fyrekun: The dance scene was a classic? Oh you precious, precious boy. You do flatter my ego so – not that it needs it but it *is* pleasant.  
  
* * *  
  
Parvati, looking something akin to a zebra with her cheeks streaked with mascara and tears, was sitting in bed, amid puddles of black-and-wet tissues. It was Saturday evening and she had not left her room since Friday night. Lavender, faithful and dim as always, brought her food, books and tidbits about everything and everybody.  
  
Parvati wasn't mourning her relationship; she saw men as bothersome but necessary creatures, which served only to enhance her status as sex goddess/man-eater. She was not, as the Hogwarts gossips were wont to say, heartbroken or ashamed; she was furious, and stayed inside because she knew that if she went in the common room and saw Ron Weasley, her hands would fasten around his throat and she'd kill him. The breakup had been a huge blow to her self-esteem and self-confidence: she'd always seen herself as a powerful, beautiful man-magnet, so to be rejected by a man was abominable. She had turned her mirror around so that it faced the wall, not wanting to ever see her own face again.  
  
"Parv?" came a knock at the door. Parvati sighed in annoyance, then panicked. A visitor! While she looked as she did! She rushed to the wall – leaving the bed for the first time in what seemed like years – and turned the mirror right-side up to see herself. Oh God – she looked like shit!  
  
"Parvati? I know you're in there…" another insistent knock – the voice was Hermione's. Well, even though the girl was pretty much a nobody – albeit her being Head Girl – Parvati was not going to show herself looking like she did. She preferred death. She ran into the bathroom, splashed water on her face to wash the ruined makeup off, then looked around wildly – the knocks on the door were multiplying – and what *was* she wearing? The gown she'd worn at the Dance! Before she had a chance to open her closet door Hermione whispered, "Alohomora," and the door opened.  
  
Parvati instinctively leaped into the bed, managing to pull the covers over her legs before Hermione entered the room. "Is it necessary to say, come in?" she asked ruefully, thinking that it was rude of the girl to just come in like that. No manners at all.  
  
"Sorry," said Hermione, pulling the bed-curtains apart and doing the same for the drapes. A ray of sunlight entered the room and pierced Parvati's midnight-black orbs. The once-buck-toothed girl stood back and examined her friend critically. She, like Seamus, thought that Parvati was carrying on ridiculously, but, unlike Seamus, Hermione could put herself in Parvati's shoes and know a little bit about the way she felt.  
  
"So?" Parvati asked dryly.  
  
"Ron's not worth this, you know," Hermione said. "I don't mean to belittle him, but…" She remembered her own little crush on him in fourth year, in the time of the Yule Ball, and she recalled her anger when he took Padma to the ball instead. The memory was vivid, and still hurt.  
  
"I tell myself that, but…" Parvati shook her head; neglected wisps of blackness flew around her face. "But let's talk of jollier things. How was the Dance for you? I'm sure *someone* had a good time." The emphasis on 'someone' was killing.  
  
"I had fun with Terry," Hermione said, incapable of lying.  
  
"Did you *do* it?" inquired Parvati, gleaming wickedly.  
  
"Parvati!" exclaimed the rightly horrified Hermione.  
  
"Just asking."  
  
"It's *none* of your business… but for your information, no."  
  
Parvati snorted, and Hermione tried another tack. "Why don't you come with me to the library? I do believe I read an article about the dangers of mixing nympho and Veela blood in a Witch Weekly there."  
  
"I may be a nympho… but there's no Veela blood in me."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really really."  
  
Hermione's admiration for Parvati doubled. It was a wonderful and rare thing to have the ability of making men fall in love with you at first glance, but if their love was merely a result of your genetics, it was not such an achievement after all. However, if one did it without having any Veela blood – that would be an achievement, indeed, and all the more wonderful and rare.  
  
"Well…" She was suddenly uncomfortable in the company of this Parvati – who was behaving appallingly because of a failed relationship with a guy who wasn't worth her – who asked about Hermione's sex life although she knew it was none of her business – who was paying no attention to her appearance: she wore no makeup, she hadn't changed clothes since the dance, and she hadn't brushed her hair since then either. "Well, I'm going now. Be seeing you." She jumped off the bed and fairly ran out.  
  
* * *  
  
Ludo and Ginny had left Hogwarts planning to go to the Three Broomsticks; but somehow their feet had carried them instead to the small woods above the cave in which Sirius, as Padfoot, had hidden during part of Harry's fourth year. Up there they could be seen only with binoculars, but they could see the world below. They sat – there was very little snow among the trees – Ludo mildly happy, Ginny fiercely triumphant: she had won! She had wanted very much to impress this man whom to her seemed as sophisticated as one could be. She had thought that she had failed – that unfortunate blurting-out of her age! – but it all had worked out for the best since the sophisticated man in question had sought *her*, even stole her purse to have a reason to talk to her – she felt sure she had not dropped it. Would she not have felt it drop from her hand?  
  
"Lovely evening," said Ludo, under the impression that the silence was slightly uncomfortable.  
  
"Lovely," agreed Ginny with a smile, turning around to look at him – he looked at her – they looked at each other; it seemed so ridiculous to her that she turned away abruptly, but he kept staring at her. She seemed unreal – made of fire – and wind – and… Her blue eyes were unlike the color of any body of water he'd ever seen – and he was a 'well-traveled man'. Three or four freckles peeked out from under the layer of make-up like the aforementioned eyes stealing glances at him.  
  
She was tall – she took after Ron – and long-limbed. Her lips were fit to rival with Jessica Alba's – or so Ludo would have thought had he any clue as to Jessica Alba's existence. He told himself that she had something that Marilyne had had before their marriage, before he had won her completely; something Celestina would have had, had she not tried to be the Wizarding World's version of Marilyn Monroe; something Debbie had always tried to attain; in other words, she was something different.  
  
"Well…" Ludo was at a loss for words. Was there anything he could say that could make this half-girl half-woman think him an intellectual? Of course not – but Virginia didn't seem to mind – in fact she was leaning towards him with a crooked smile… her lips *almost* but not quite touching his ear.  
  
"Did I really drop my handbag?" she asked, and Oh God, he could feel her breath on his skin – it had been ages since he's felt like that – since he'd felt anything…  
  
"N… no," he managed, with some difficulty.  
  
Her eyes glittered like hard, ice-cold, unreachable gems. "I didn't think so either," she remarked, satisfied, reaching up a white hand – all her skin was white, and contrasted beautifully with her flame-colored hair – to touch his cheek. It took all of Ludo Bagman's self-control to keep from gasping at the contact. She was so dreadfully cold – almost icy – as though she hadn't been warm for years. She kept leaning forward, in an excruciatingly slow manner, and – s…l…o…w...l…y... – her plump reddish-pink lips touched his, fleetingly – the ghost of a kiss.  
  
Then, without warning, she leapt up, and took a step back, surveying him the way a cat watches a mouse she plans to have for dinner.  
  
"Virginia – w-where are you going?" he asked, still shaken from the kiss – pleasantly shaken, of course.  
  
She laughed; it sounded like the ring of crystal bells to Ludo's ears, but he couldn't help thinking that there was something not quite… chaste… about her laugh. "Catch me – if you can!" she cried, joyously, running between the trees – escaping, to Ludo's mind… like Celestina had, as sand through his fingers, and he couldn't let her get away – not this one… He stood up, joints creaking, and jogged after her.  
  
* * *  
  
//I wonder what Hermione said to Seamus,// thought Ron as he absentmindedly played chess with Harry – so absentmindedly that Harry cried jubilantly,  
  
"Checkmate!"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I said, checkmate, but… are you alright, Ron? You seem kind of… pale." Ron's freckles stood out starkly, and Harry felt a small pang of guilt – how long had Ron been sick-ish like this? And how come he, Harry, best friend of Ron, had not noticed? Was he *blind*? Or so wrapped up with Draco that nothing else mattered?  
  
"I'm fine, don't worry about me," Ron said, trying to laugh it away. "Just… have a lot on my mind, that's all."  
  
"Like what?" asked Harry, feeling that he should *know* without asking what Ron had on his mind – seven years of best-friendship had not been for nothing.  
  
"Like… NEWTs," lied Ron – the NEWTs had never crossed his mind in his life except once when he had heard his mother lecturing the twins about them. He felt a bit guilty, lying to Harry – but then again he had seen so little of Harry the past few weeks.  
  
"Yeah… the NEWTs are on everybody's mind," said Harry, not knowing if that was a lie or not, "Hermione's going bonkers about them, but she doesn't even need to – she's never gotten less than two hundred thirteen percent in all her life." He chuckled hollowly, not knowing what else to say.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Checkmate," Harry said again.  
  
"Oh, really?" Ron glanced at the chessboard: he only had four pawns, a bishop, and the kind; Harry's rook was waving a menacing fist in his direction. Ron, a tad discouraged, said, "Oh – you win, Harry."  
  
"But you still have a bishop," protested Harry, puzzled.  
  
"You still win," Ron said, leaping up from the red common-room armchair/; he patted Harry on the back and added, "Congrats!" as he clumsily knocked the pieces over in a hurried attempt to leave the common room. (The Seamus- free common room.)  
  
* * *  
  
Seamus was in the library, deep in conversation with Hermione – or rather, he was blabbering away three hundred words a minute, while Hermione tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to block out the thunderstorm of words with a thick notebook filled with SPEW information – Hermione had never truly given up on SPEW, despite the mockeries she had constantly received.  
  
"That was real sound advice ye gave me, Hermi, I'm gonna do ezackly what ye said –" Seamus' accent was always more obvious when he spoke quickly –"It seems like a mighty good plan fer getting me man back – I dinnae think that Parvati stands a chance now that I'm so determined, huh?"  
  
"Indeed," Hermione muttered, pretending to be absorbed by the contents of a page headed "Names of Hogwarts House-Elves pro-SPEW". Dobby's name topped the very short list; the only other name was Tinky, cousin of Winky, who also felt that there was more to life than being a servant.  
  
"I s'pose you don't think I got what it takes to compete with that Parvati? Now that's where yer mistaken, Miss Granger, because that girl is a looker, 'tis true, but she's a snaky one and no mistake. Sometimes I think she's got no soul. I can compete with a girl who ain't got no soul, no? Don't you think so, Hermi? Hermi? What do you think?"  
  
"I think you should come with an off switch," groaned Hermione, shutting the notebook with a snap. "Or at least a volume knob."  
  
"You should like my aunt Aggie," Seamus told her, "me mam used to let her baby-sit me, so to speak, on market days – and Aggie sure liked her pint." He shook his blond head. "She used ter beat me for talkin' too much – I took many a beating in my younger days and that you may tie to."  
  
"The experience has obviously taught you nothing," Hermione said scornfully, getting up to leave - //Thank God Terry's not much of a talker!//  
  
"Ah, don't say that, Hermi," Seamus said a bit sadly. "Hermi? Where are you going? Wait for me!" He rushed after her; Hermione ran for dear life, clutching the SPEW notebook to her chest. The Irish boy doggedly pursued her; Hermione rounded a corner and stopped because of a stitch in her side. She was quiet as a mouse but her strained panting gave her away. Seamus had found her.  
  
"Eep," shrieked Hermione as she saw him – she would *die* if he opened his mouth! She couldn't take his constant jabbering! "Go away, Seamus," she moaned, her nerves worn out, frizzled, frayed.  
  
"Bejaysus! Why'd ye have to go runnin' off like that, Hermi? I haven't got leprosy or nothin'…" He was inches away from her now… half a foot… she clenched back a sob and pictured herself in a straitjacket. Oh, it would happen. She pictured herself behind bars, in a dirty cell in Azkaban, Dementors floating around ghoulishly… locked up for premeditated murder. "I haven't thanked ye for advisin' me like ye did, now did I?" he continued.  
  
"No, and I don't want you to – go away, go away!"  
  
Seamus laughed in that way of his – it sounded joyful enough but Hermione was thinking suicidal thoughts just hearing him *breathe*. "But I have to – I'm a gentleman." He leaned forward – and the horrid insufferable little beast *kissed* her! Hermione shoved him off, furious, and slapped him before he knew what was going on.  
  
"How dare you," Hermione seethed, clenching her fists at her side. She felt like saying something mean and nasty – something to make this little puppy- eyed slut know that she was not somebody to mess with. "No wonder Ron is moping after Parvati so much!" she finally crowed, "he threw away every good thing he had when he dumped her – and you're the consolation prize!" She turned around quickly as to not see the hurt look in his eyes – she hated that look, especially in Seamus – but he did deserve it… didn't he?  
  
"It was a thank-you," he said, abashed, and very much confused – his caresses had never been received *that* way, and even though he hadn't been flirting with Hermione – he *had* just been thanking her, in his own clumsy slutty way – "You're too touchy, Hermione Granger," he finally said, "and what you just said right now was below the belt."  
  
His curved accent was nearly gone, he was speaking slowly – horribly slowly – Hermione felt guilty. But she also felt justified, in a sense – he was making her lose her mind with his foolish nonsense-talk – and then he kissed her – well, he did deserve a little slap. But she felt as though she had hit a child – a wee, defenseless creature – which was ridiculous because Seamus, four inches taller than her, and doubtlessly stronger – as any Beater should be – was not defenseless.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry, morose, lay in a library armchair – he had been spending a fearful amount of time in there, searching for Blaise to find Draco, or going there to escape from Draco, which was what he was doing now.  
  
The Slytherin's pointed, italicized insinuations about him and Oliver Wood… they repulsed him. Oliver had been nothing more than a good friend who understood what it felt to love a sport so much that you woke up in the middle of the night, panting, sweating, from a nightmare in which a cackling Uncle Vernon told you that the wizarding world – and Quidditch – didn't exist. He had been a fantastic Quidditch team Captain, a laudable coach, and such a fanatic it made Harry's adoration for the sport seem like nothing. He had even made Harry team captain, on the condition that the latter take over in fifth-year – a responsibility which Harry had given to Ron, who longed for a chance to shine (not even Charlie had been team captain).  
  
Harry seethed – the incident had reminded him that Draco was undomesticated, untamable - //just when you think you're getting somewhere with him, he does something like this,// he thought sadly. A creature so elven, so fragile, so fairy-like, so seemingly pure, should *not* think such lewd things. But Draco didn't stand by rules; he was uncompromising, stubborn, selfish – not one single thought of his had ever been selfless.  
  
As though on cue, the Fair One sauntered into the library, spotted Harry, and walked towards him. "You're always in here," he remarked disapprovingly, raising a self-praising hand towards his chest and examining his nails with scrupulous care. "When you're not with me, or with the Mudblood, or with the Weasel."  
  
"Shut *up*," Harry hissed, clenching his fists.  
  
"My sweater," said Draco quietly.  
  
"Get it dry-cleaned," Harry nearly shouted in exasperation, earning himself an admonishing glare from Madam Pince, who was 'trying to work' at her desk.  
  
"Dry-cleaned?" Draco kept his eyes glued to his nails. "I'm afraid I'm not at all familiar with your silly Muggle 'technology', Harry, love."  
  
//Just when you don't know if you should slug him in the guts he calls you love,// Harry told himself desperately, not knowing at all what to do; so Draco did it for him. His hand dropped casually to his side – the other one sneaked behind Harry's neck. He pressed his mouth to the Gryffindor's, in the way that always made Harry think of Draco's lips as pink tidal waves. Harry hesitantly pushed his tongue in Draco's mouth – the blonde let out a fearfully delicious moan that shocked poor Madam Pince, who dropped her glasses in fright and very nearly had a cardiac arrest.  
  
  
  
* * * 


	8. Chapter VIII

Disclaimer: not mine, dude.  
  
Bondagechic: Oo… I dare, for I am the All-Mighty Author! Mwahahahaha! *coughs a bit* Oh-kay, never mind me. But you *will* get your resistant!Harry one day. I promise – although a promise from *me* ain't worth much, I tells ya.  
  
Eve: Oooooh – flattery. Me likes. It makes me write more (hint, hint!)  
  
DarkNess: Thanks for the definition…. I think Draco is floofy by nature. He was born that way – although his father *is* a smart man.  
  
* * *  
  
"Hermione? I need… I need… help."  
  
Ron's strangely timid voice came from the doorway. Hermione turned around; it was obvious from the pallor of his cheeks and the general kicked-dog look of him what kind of help he needed. "Argh," she exclaimed, throwing her quill on her desk in irritation, "maybe I should start an Advice for the Lovelorn column for the Daily Prophet!"  
  
"Well, I –"  
  
"Make it quick, Ron Weasley, you're disturbing me from very important work!" In fact, she had been writing a love-letter to Terry, which she quickly hid under a few yellowed parchments. "Well? Get on with it."  
  
"It's about Seamus –" Ron sat heavily on the bed, which creaked dangerously.  
  
"What about your little slut of a boyfriend?" Hermione asked sharply, remembering the feel of Seamus' lips on hers – an altogether unpleasant experience.  
  
"He's…" Ron looked up at 'little slut of a boyfriend'. "Jeez, Herm, you don't have to be so harsh," he said reproachfully.  
  
"Get on with it," repeated Hermione, biting her lip.  
  
"He's just… avoiding me. He won't let me go anywhere near him and he never goes anywhere near *me*." Ron pouted for effect.  
  
"Strange behavior for someone who had such a promising career as a male prostitute," agreed Hermione, glancing pointedly at the eagle-feather quill on her desk.  
  
"What should I do?" the redhead moaned, letting himself fall backwards on the bed, accidentally hitting Crookshanks; the cat hissed and spat at him, baring a long, white claw. Hermione leapt off her chair and ran to the bed, glaring at Ron; she picked up the fluffy ginger beast lovingly. She held the cat as though he was made of glass, and sat down on the bed next to Ron. "Well? What should I do?" he echoed impatiently.  
  
"Look, Ron…" Should she tell him? After all, she hadn't been sworn to secrecy by Seamus – her talk with the boy was not confidential, and she was at liberty to tell Ron about what she had advised Seamus to do. //But what if he gets pissed off at me?// she wondered, and then shrugged the thought away; here was a small chance of fixing a problematic relationship. "I… told Seamus to avoid you for a while," she said lamely.  
  
"You what?" Ron whipped around to face her, looking angry and shocked – the look of him would have made her laugh if his anger hadn't been directed at her. "You did this? Hermione, how could you!"  
  
"I –"  
  
"It's not enough that you're Head Girl and a shoo-in for the ministry, you have to go and sabotage my relationship!"  
  
"Ron, shut *up*, you don't know what you're saying," she hissed, seconds away from slapping him like she had Seamus. Crookshanks, still hissing, sat down between the two, in case this gangly human threatened his beloved mistress.  
  
"Oh, I don't?" scoffed Ron incredulously. "Maybe you can explain, then!"  
  
"Look, Seamus *asked* me for advice – he was practically brokenhearted because… because he *loves* you –" she didn't know if this was true or not, but a little white lie now and then couldn't possibly hurt –"and each time he's with you all you think about is Parvati."  
  
"I think it's normal of me to –"  
  
For crissakes, Ron, you dumped Parvati, so it's over between you two – stop moping about her! It's killing Seamus." She paused for air, and Ron said plaintively,  
  
"He's killing *me*."  
  
"So he asked me what to do," continued Hermione, ignoring his interruption, "and I told him to cool it off between the two of you – give you time to forget about that black-haired witch! You can stop accusing me of wanting to 'sabotage your relationship' because frankly you're doing the sabotaging yourself!" The last word was shrill, nearly hysterical.  
  
"Oh…" Ron muttered, ashamed, looking down at his feet. "I'm sorry I said… what I said to you, Herm."  
  
"It's okay." Hermione shook her bushy head, and uncomfortable silence invaded the room. She was too drained from her diatribe to speak, and he was too embarrassed by what she'd said – she spoke the truth, and the harsh words had hit home – to say anything. Thus nobody said anything; the only sound in the room, apart from soft breathing, was Crookshanks' loud purring.  
  
"I guess I'll go now," Ron finally managed to say.  
  
Hermione nodded, her auburn locks escaping their hair-elastic prison. "That's a good idea."  
  
Ron stood up, looking at her sadly. He made for the door. "I really am sorry," he said, "it's just that…"  
  
"Yeah," said Hermione.  
  
He left, and closed the door softly in his wake.  
  
She got up from the bed, still stroking Crookshanks absentmindedly, and walked to her desk, hoping to finish the letter and send it to Terry – a foolish habit this, wasting parchment and ink when she could see him whenever she wanted, as he was at her beck and call.  
  
Seated once more in the high-backed, winged armchair, she looked down at her hands. On her left one she wore the mood ring that Harry had given her for Christmas in third year; it was made of glass, circular, plain but pretty; it was often either red or amber – busy or relaxed, those colors were supposed to mean. The glass surface was scratched but she wouldn't mend it with magic: she liked things to be a little timeworn; it was proof, in a way, of how long she'd had and treasured it.  
  
In a navy-blue box on the corner of the desk was Terry's Valentine's Day present to her. She took the lid off the box to look at it again, gloatingly. It was a choker. A smooth thin length of black velvet with three small square-shaped garnets – her birthstone. It was perfect for her, the red improving her complexion, flattering her face, suiting her hair. It was lovely and she loved it – although she blushed when she htought of how much Terry had spent on it – on her. Oh well – the things love did to you. Humming, she picked up the quill and pulled the parchment towards her.  
  
* * *  
  
Padma, deely concerned about her sister's well-being, was currently in front of a sleeping Fat Lady, whose three chins jiggled continuously as she snored, oblivous to everything.  
  
"Um, wake up," Padma said lamely.  
  
The portrait woke up with a start. "Oh, it's you, Parvati?" she asked thickly. "I know you *know* the password – go in…" She yawed and the painting-frame swung forwardly, nearly hitting the Ravenclaw girl in the face. Padma clambered through the portrait hole and stumbled into the Gryffindor common room, which glowed gold-and-red from the fire dancing in the grate. From there she found her way easily into her sister's dormitory.  
  
"Padma!" exclaimed Parvati, rightfully surprised – the sisters both lived in Hogwarts, of course, but it felt as though they were miles apart – they saw each other briefly during meals, and during double Charms.  
  
"I'm here," said Padma severely, "because –" she glanced at her watch – "in exactly four minutes it'll be very early Sunday morning, Parv. You've been in here since Friday."  
  
"Because," Parvati crooned dramatically, "but, oh – you wouldn't understand. You don't know anything about this sort of thing."  
  
Padma, being a Ravenclaw, did not like being told she knew nothing about a thing, no matter how trivial. "Try me," she snapped.  
  
"I've been the resident sex goddess for how long? – oh yes, seven years," Parvati smirked, "because even at eleven I had a certain charm." She paused to toss her hair over her shoulder – a useless act as far as Padma could do, but she refrained from commenting. "From then it all snowballed uphill. It was quite enjorable, really."  
  
"What do you mean, it was?" demanded her twin, curiosity getting the better of her – just as Parvati had expected.  
  
"Well," she explained impatiently, "I got dumped, didn't I? And that ruins everything."  
  
"I don't see why," insisted Padma stubbornly, her forehead knotted by a frown.  
  
The younger of the two rolled her eyes and said, more impatiently still, "This might be hard for you to understand – after all, no one's ever been wild about *you* - but I had a certain…"  
  
"… virginal appeal?" supplied Padma sarcastically.  
  
"Appeal," said Parvati, dropping the other word. "I was the girl everyone wanted to have – male and female alike – I was immensely popular. The number of fights that erupted over dates with me!" She fanned herself idly with an old copy of Witch Weekly. "And then, I get dumped – by that little arsehole Ron Weasley." Gritting her teeth, she dug her nails into her pillow, pretending it to be a certain red-headed seventh-year.  
  
"Oh, come on, as if that ruined *everything*," argued Padma, who knew after seventeen years that arguing with Parvati was as safe as waving a red cloth at a bull, but who couldn't resist the temptation. "Everyone gets dumped at least once in their lifetime. Otherwise it's not normal."  
  
"You've never been dumped," remarked the long-haired one, "but wait – that's because you've never had a boyfriend. Is *that* normal?"  
  
Red-faced, Padma glared at her twin, who was younger than her by half an hour. "I came to help you, and this is what I get," she spat venomously. Turning to leave, she waited until she was out the door before adding, "and as for me not having had a boyfriend, I don'' tell you *everything*, Parvati Patil!""  
  
* * *  
  
"Stay here. I'll be right back." Draco regretfully pulled away from Harry's warmth and started down the hall. "Damn my bladder – don't move."  
  
Draco's whispered words had not fallen on deaf ears. Harry seemed to have grown root; the only part of his body that dared to move was his greener- than-green eyes – the stirring movement in his crotch notwithstanding.  
  
"Damn your bladder," he said, "indeed," and he looked around idly.  
  
Approaching footsteps made him look up in alarm – a run-in with Filch was the last thing he needed. But no, Filch didn't have red hair, Filch never ran down staircases waving his arms in the air – it was a passable imitation of a windmill, Harry thought – Filch never shrieked, "HARRY! Was that *Malfoy*??!"  
  
"What?" said Harry dumbly, as Ron came to a stop in front of him.  
  
"Was that Malfoy I just saw you with?"  
  
"Um. Yeah."  
  
"What was he doing there?" said Ron, in a dangerously soft voice, like Snape on a bad day.  
  
"He was. Um. Insulting my poor dead Muggle-born mother," said Harry, crossing his fingers behind his back.  
  
"Insulting her with HIS TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH?" bellowed Ron, crimson-faced – //He looks like a tomato with arms and legs…// – he looked absolutely furious. "Harry – please tell me you're not doing Malfoy behind everyone's back."  
  
"Why, what's wrong with Malfoy?" asked Harry innocently, much in the way that Draco had said, "What's wrong with Potter?" to Pansy on that fateful day.  
  
"He's a Slytherin! He's a stupid little prick!" Ron said, eyes comically wide as he stared, aghast, at Harry, not believing that his best friend did not know himself what was 'wrong' with Malfoy. "His father's Voldemort's second-hand man, he tried to get you killed in second year – that was the same year he started a fight with my dad – he didn't win – didn't even come close – but still – and he also tried to get my dad fired a gazillion times!"  
  
"Well, if it comes to that…" Harry said, feeling his face warm up. "He's not responsible for what his dad tried to do, okay?" He suddenly noted that Ron had not put 'he's a guy' on Draco's list of shortcomings. "And who are *you* with, by the way?"  
  
"Me?" asked Ron, paling the tiniest bit – but his face had been so red that the smallest change was easily visible. "I'm alone – aren't with anyone."  
  
"I don't believe *that*," Harry scoffed.  
  
"Well, I just dumped Parvati –"  
  
"You would have had time to find someone else by now," argued Harry, hands on hips, "you were always a flirty little thing. Don't you lie to me, Ron Weasley."  
  
"I'm not with anyone," Ron muttered, abashed; Hermione was one thing – she was a girl and thus had a certain wisdom and knew what to do in embarassing situations – but he couldn't tell Harry that he had been cheating on Parvati for weeks – with *Seamus*, the Hogwarts Whore. Harry, whose honesty policy was more than annoying at times, would purse his lips and look at him in that disapproving way of his…  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Look, I promise." Ron stared at his toes.  
  
Harry willed him to leave. Draco would be coming back soon and a confrontation between the two would be hellish.  
  
"So…" he said.  
  
"So," agreed Ron, not looking up from his toes.  
  
* * *  
  
The worst person possible had 'accidentally' heard the conversation. Seamus had been walking along that corridor, planning to go down to the kitchens and nick some food from the house-elves – he was always annoyingly hungry after coitus. And then he had heard Ron and Harry speaking. Seamus was always one to eavesdrop as much as possible, "to gather information" to be used in blackmail and other such things. He had expected to be amused, and had learned a lot – Harry and Malfoy? Who'd have thought? Come to think of it, it did make sense, in a way – the two were suited to each other…  
  
But then to hear Ron fervently denying their relationship…  
  
I know I'm not exactly fucking choice, Seamus thought miserably, or high class, but he didn't have to lie. As if he was fucking ashamed of me. I may be promiscuous but that doesn't make me any less fucking human. I'm a nice person. How dare he do that to me.  
  
He hugged his knees.  
  
Maybe he fucking thinks it's over because I'm avoiding him. But that's not my fault – it's fucking his, with all his moaning over fucking Parvati, what was I supposed to do? I did what Hermione told me. She's so fucking smart that how was I supposed to know she was wrong?  
  
His knees did not provide the warmth that Ron did…  
  
It's really over now, Seamus vowed fiercely, knowing in the back of his mind that all it took was for Ron to snap his fingers and he would go crawling back to him, it's over because he doesn't deserve me – I wouldn't do that to him. I'm not a traitorous fuck.  
  
He let go of his knees, and stood up angrily.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny was alone inside the dormitory bathroom – the other four girls would simply *not* vacate the premises to give her some privacy. Perched atop a toilet, she gloatingly puffed on a cigarette. Smoking was somehting she had picked up from the twins, as had Ron, and something she only did when she was particularly happy with herself.  
  
I won, she told herself, I won out. I never thought I would – but I did.  
  
Smiling, she blew a smoke ring and blinked.  
  
I was so sure he wouldn't look twice at me, him being… thirty-five? and I'm only sixteen, but I was wrong because he fell for me. I seduced him – me! I'm powerful… I'm a man-magnet… I'm like Parvati…  
  
She pressed the fourth fag to the third to light it, then pressed it to her lips.  
  
He's crazy about me now. I could see that in his eyes. He loves me. As I love him. And it doesn't matter that he's old enough to be my father because age is nothing but a number… it's nothing put beside my feelings… our feelings.  
  
She carressed the packet of Wizzy-Lites on the toilet tank beside her.  
  
I know even Parvati wouldn't have been able to do that. Or it would have taken her longer to do it. He might not even have looked at her twice – maybe it's just redheads that turn him on.  
  
She coughed because of the smoke that filled her lungs suddenly, then chuckled quietly to herself. She could do this, she could do *anything*. World domination suddenly seemed like a possibility.  
  
"Gin?" came a voice from the other side of the door.  
  
"What do you want, Mary Sue?" called Ginny a tad rudely; but she was justified by the fact that it is hard to share a room with someone that you can't stand for six years.  
  
"Are you talking to yourself in there? Unlock the door." The girl's fists banged on the wood, then give up.  
  
"Make me," scoffed Ginny more rudely still, putting out the cigarette on the toilet seat. If anyone found out she'd been smoking – Filch would skin her alive, and Dumbledore, who was dead against the habit, would owl her parents… She threw the evidence of her pastime into the toilet and flushed repeatedly, watching the fags swirl down the drain a bit sadly.  
  
"Gin, come out," whined Mary Sue, "other people need to use the bathroom, you know."  
  
"Too bad for them," retorted the redhead. //Damn, it still smells like smoke in here – fuck! What was that air-freshening spell again?//  
  
"Gin-ny," Mary Sue whined again.  
  
"Coming!" Ginny called, looking for her wand. Having found it under a bottle of soap, she waved it in the air and whispered, "Frescens," hoping she hadn't overdone it – last time the bathroom had smelt of those disgusting gel thingies that Muggles put in their bathrooms to 'absorb the smell and release a soothing flower-scent' for days.  
  
She opened the door, almost knocking Mary Sue to the floor – the airhead had been leaning heavily on it. "There you go," Ginny said, assuring herself by tapping her robe pocket that she had the pack of Wizzy-Lites with her.  
  
"Thanks," said Mary Sue uncertainly.  
  
"No problem," said Ginny absently – she's lost in a fantasy with her and Ludo once again.  
  
Pink feather boa…  
  
No, pink clashes horribly with my hair…  
  
Blue feather boa…  
  
Strawberry syrup…  
  
Unless he's allergic to strawberries…  
  
Blueberry syrup, then…  
  
Ginny yawned. She had had a long day.  
  
* * * 


	9. Chapter IX

Extra thanks to Lib, who was the first to call Terry The Bootboy. You have her to blame.  
  
ChibiWhiteFerret: See? I meant the Veela no harm.  
  
Fyrekun: Oh, it'll all work itself out. *whimpergiggles*  
  
Tumofam: Of course I'll write more!  
  
Lib: Good 4 u.  
  
SophieB: What overwhelmingly obvious personality flaws?? Oh god, tell me so I can fix them!  
  
* * *  
  
In the library, Hermione was avidly reading a book called 'From Urvin the Unstoppable's Point of View: The Goblin Rebellion of 1425'. Ordinary people would have found it deeply boring, but in the Head Girl's opinion it was fascinating, and she read page after page of small-print details.  
  
"Hi," said a voice next to her.  
  
Hermione looked up. Parvati? No. Padma. "Hello," she answered politely. Padma was a nice enough girl, but they weren't close enough for her to be labeled as a friend.  
  
"How are you?" said Padma smoothly, standing next to Hermione, her fingers drumming on the tabletop.  
  
"Fine," said Hermione again, trying to think of a nice way to say 'bug off'. She only wanted to get back to her book; she didn't have time for a conversation. "Why do you ask?" she added curiously; she and Padma had only spoken four times in their lives, and it seemed odd for the black-haired girl to just come up and say 'hi'.  
  
Padma shrugged, said nothing, and Hermione's eyes flickered in the direction of her book. Padma's voice cut through the silence: "You know, Hermione, I've always liked you."  
  
"Um," went Hermione. She tried to recall one of the phrases that Harry used to gently let down his drooling fangirls/fanboys. "Padma, I, eh, like you too, but in a platonic way. I value your friendship and –" she stopped. It was ridiculous to say that she valued the other girl's friendship because they had never *been* friends. She stared at her thumbs stupidly.  
  
"Ha," said Padma with a smile. "I don't mean 'like' as in friends. I like- like you."  
  
"Um," went Hermione again, feeling like a broken record. She had the presence of mind to ask, "since when?"  
  
"Since always," said Padma, smile even wider. "In first year I was heartbroken at the thought of us being in different houses. Then I sort of – forgot. Until third year…"  
  
"Um," said Hermione again.  
  
"Remember the Yule Ball, Hermione?" continued Padma, twirling a tendril of reddish-brown hair between her fingers. "I was with Ron, I know, but I was watching you… dancing with Krum… wanting so badly to be in his shoes…."  
  
"Um," said Hermione again, at a complete loss for words.  
  
"And then to see you dating the Bootboy," said Padma wrathfully, voice filled with lust, which disturbed Hermione enormously. "He doesn't deserve you."  
  
"Bootboy?" echoed Hermione lamely, feeling as intelligent as Pigwidgeon.  
  
Instead of answering, Padma leaned down and kissed her, half on the lips and half on the cheek; her lips were soft and smelled nice and Hermione discovered that if she cocked her head just right she could see down Padma's robe.  
  
"Eep," went Hermione Granger. //I did not just think that.// She was under the impression that the library was spinning madly around; dizzy and confused, she stood up.  
  
Padma linked her arm through Hermione's, grinning like a Chesire cat, looking as though she was capable of purring. She walked the Head Girl firmly out of the library.  
  
"Wha… where are you taking me?" asked Hermione, struggling for a second.  
  
There was no answer, just an enigmatic smile from Padma, until their destination became clear.  
  
A broom closet.  
  
"Predictable, really," Hermione said, a tad scornfully. Padma opened the door and pushed both of them inside; she sat down on a pile of boxes, all filled with steel-wool sponges, while Hermione seated herself on a upturned bucket.  
  
"Predictable, but…" Padma didn't bother to finish her sentence; she had found a better use for her mouth, that is, nibbling on Hermione's lower lip intently. The frizzy-haired almost sighed in pleasure, before she remembered 'Bootboy'.  
  
"Pa – aaaah! – aaadma – stop."  
  
"Why?" But Padma had understood. "Oh, him. Forget him, Hermione…"  
  
"I can't just forget him. I have morals," said Hermione stubbornly. "And I thought you did too. Are you sure you're Padma, and not Parvati?"  
  
For some reason Padma smiled at this, her fingers tracing tiny circles on Hermione's lips. "You wouldn't have looked twice at him if he hadn't been Head Boy," she said accusingly, the words accompanied by a tinkling laugh. "And you know it." She paused before adding, "I was Prefect. That's an anagram of 'perfect'."  
  
Hermione laughed but pushed Padma's fingers away. "And Head Boy is anagram of what?" she asked.  
  
"Ye bad ho," grinned Padma wickedly, seating herself on Hermione's bucket – meaning that the space between had gone down to a measly quarter of an inch.  
  
Hermione gasped softly, and attempted to push Padma off – peine perdue, as the French say, because the Ravenclaw refused to budge. Still astounded at this sudden change of events, Hermione moved to the other end of the bucket – and fell off. Padma laughed musically, and, putting her arms around Hermione, helped her up.  
  
"Oh – oh, God," said Hermione lamely.  
  
"Well?" asked Padma, pouting charmingly. "Made a decision yet? Bootboy loves you. But I'd worship you, if you'd say the word. I'd be the Harry Potter to your Draco Malfoy, you know." Her hand, which had until that point rested in her own lap, suddenly touched Hermione's knee – and went higher.  
  
"Eep," went Hermione. The situation was beyond her control and she didn't like that. She was locked inside a broom closet with a girl who until then had barely spoken to her, but was now professing her love for Hermione, and was *touching* her… Oh gods, help…  
  
Padma, with a soft throaty chuckle, closed in on her and covered Hermione's mouth with her own, resting her tongue on Hermione's bottom teeth. Then, suddenly, she pulled away, looking at the Head Girl to see how she was taking it.  
  
Just as suddenly, she sprung up from the bucket and said, in cheerful tones, "You need time to make a decision, between Bootboy and I – just keep in mind what I said earlier. I'll give you all the time you need –" and she caressed Hermione's cheek before turning on her heels, opening the closet door, and stepping outside, leaving Hermione inside, confused, shocked and in the dark.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny was waiting for Ludo at the castle gates. The Quidditch match was over – Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff – and after Ludo had congratulated Harry, who had won, of course, he had gone inside to change. She, already dressed in navy-blue robes, was casually smoking a Wizzy-Lite, too far from the castle itself to be noticed by Dumbledore or Filch.  
  
Just as she was grinding the cigarette butt into the ground, he reached next to her, and encircled her waist with his strong arms before she had noticed his presence. "Oh!" she exclaimed, more surprised than scared, whirling around to face him, still in his arms. "Ludo," she went on, pleased, snuggling up to him.  
  
"Not here," he told her. "We're too close to the castle still. Wait until we're in Hogsmeade." Seeing her put the packet of Wizzy-Lites back in her pocket, he added, with an amount of displeasure in his voice, "You smoke?"  
  
"Sometimes," she answered lightly, starting down the path that led into the village. "Why?"  
  
"Nasty habit," Ludo told her severely.  
  
At this Ginny laughed saucily at him. "God, you sound like my mother – or how my mother would sound if she knew. Don't try to discipline me, Ludo. You're my lover, not my guardian."  
  
Ludo blushed at the word 'lover'. "True," he managed to say.  
  
"So where are we going?"  
  
"There's a new café across the street from Dervish and Banges. I thought we could go."  
  
"Good idea," approved Ginny.  
  
The café, when they reached it, proved to be a small, quaint, clean, but most importantly, dimly-lit place. Nobody would recognize the famous Ludo Bagman, or if they did, they wouldn't realise that the young lady he was with was a Hogwarts student.  
  
They sat at a table, and a short but lean waiter scurried over to them. "May I take your order?" he squeaked, whipping out a notepad and a pen.  
  
"Cappuccino," said Ludo immediately. "Both of us."  
  
"But I didn't want a cappuccino," protsted Ginny when the waiter had gone, "I wanted –"  
  
"That was just to get rid of him," Ludo explained patiently, reaching across the table to touch his underage love's hand. The redhead smiled, and got out of her chair; she sat naughtily on Ludo's lap, giggling quietly at the blush that spread over his cheeks. "Not here," hissed Ludo with fright, "someone could see…"  
  
"Who cares?" breathed Ginny, "someone *always* sees." She leaned down to kiss him, on the cheek – it was ironically chaste, given her position; her hands toyed with the collar of his robe. "We might as well…"  
  
Ludo sneaked a look inside the kitchen of the café: no waiter in sight. He returned the kiss, surrendering, and she laughed in a slightly evil way. "Good boy," she praised, beginning to undo the buttons of the robe – but the waiter was coming back, and she hurried off of him and back into her seat, smoothing her robe with her sweating palms.  
  
"Here you go," said the merry waiter, failing to notice that Ginny was looking daggers at him.  
  
Ginny and Ludo looked at each other; he sipped his coffee, but she didn't touch hers. The mood had been spoiled, somehow; she wanted nothing more than going back to Hogwarts and going to bed. It had been a trying day and his presence did not help as she had expected it to.  
  
* * *  
  
"Seamus! Seamus! Wait up!"  
  
The Irish boy turned around and saw Ron running after him, huffing and puffing, with a stitch in his side, yelling his name. Seamus pursed his lips and went on walking, ignoring the shouting boy.  
  
"Seamus," panted Ron, having finally caught up with him. "Ha-happy St- Patrick's Day!" He took out of his pocket a small green velvet box – which contained a four-leaf-clover shaped pin – and held it towards Seamus, but the latter didn't look twice at it, and breezed past him haughtily.  
  
"Seamus?" echoed a very confused Ron. "Wait – where are you going?"  
  
"I think, Ronald, that you are mistaking me for a person who is even remotely interested in what you're saying," Seamus told him coldly, enunciating each syllable crystal-clearly.  
  
"Uh," gaped Ron, "what?"  
  
Seamus gave him a pointed glare which was so different from the usual cheerful turquoise twinkle of his eyes that Ron was stunned. "I have *feelings*, you know," the sandy-haired began, passionately, "even if I do sleep around – and I only sleep around because I haven't found Mr. Right. And I actually thought *you* might be Mr. Right – but…"  
  
"But what?" gasped the confused Ron, dazed as though Seamus had dashed a bucketful of icy water on him.  
  
"It's over, Ronniekins." The dreaded childhood nickname was chock-full of venom and hatred.  
  
"What?" repeated Ron.  
  
"I'm giving you a chance to find someone you won't be too ashamed of to mention to your friends," said Seamus. "Oh yes. I heard you talking to Harry. 'No, I'm not with anyone, honestly'," he mimicked meanly. "Bastard."  
  
"But…" protested a very monosyllabic Ron.  
  
"You can go back to mooning after Parvati in peace. I doubt she'd take you back – but if you groveled and kissed her ass nicely enough – "  
  
"Seamus!"  
  
"What? It's the truth. Don't worry about me; I'll find someone else soon enough."  
  
"Seamus, please!"  
  
But it was too late. He had gone.  
  
* * *  
  
Blaise, on Draco's bed, was bored and annoyed, as the latter was discussing Harry in great detail. Blaise, who disliked Harry, and was jealous of him – up to that point she had been the most important person in Draco's life, other than his parents – was not participating much in the conversation.  
  
"After dinner I'm seeing Harry," twittered Draco. "We're going to go and make out in a secret passageway he found on his Map…"  
  
"Ew," said Blaise.  
  
"And I might have time to try out a new 'move' that I read about in SexyWiz magazine," Draco went on. "I hope he'll like it."  
  
"Draco," said Blaise, "I do wish you wouldn't fuck about with Potter quite so much."  
  
"Why not?" asked Draco innocently, widening his silver eyes.  
  
"He may have defeated Voldemort but he is lower class," explained Blaise, rolling her eyes impatiently.  
  
"Snob," accused her cousin, throwing a pillow at her.  
  
"You could catch some class of a disease from him," she continued, "God knows where he's been."  
  
"Oh, come on." This time Draco rolled his eyes, and scoffed charmingly. "My Harry isn't like Finnigan. He was - *was* - a virgin."  
  
" 'My Harry'," mocked Blaise, snorting derisively. "You've gotten awful sentimental, Draco." She stretched her pale limbs and dipped her quill in ink to finish the sketch she had begun – it was a man who strikingly resembled Harry himself, being torn apart by a trio of ravenous wolves. An arrow marked 'Remus Lupin' pointed to one of the wolves.  
  
"Nothing wrong with sentimentality."  
  
"I seem to recall," said Blaise, adding another wolf to the picture, "you saying last year that 'I don't ever want to love anyone really, because love makes you a slave.' Where has that Draco gone?"  
  
"People change," shrugged the blonde, thinking of Harry and Harry only.  
  
"For the worst," muttered Blaise under her breath.  
  
"Oh, shut up, Blaise – *you* have never loved anyone. Methinks you're bitter. Or jealous. Or both."  
  
"Jealous! Of your Potter!" Blaise snorted again, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Not likely. You can keep your little Gryffindor. But I wonder if your father would be proud of you if he knew."  
  
"My father," Draco informed her, "had an affair with *his* father, so I doubt he'd be against it much."  
  
"UuuuUuurrgh," went Blaise, gagging with a finger down her throat, "of all the things I did *not* need to know. And I thought uncle Lucius had taste."  
  
* * * 


	10. Chapter X

Author's Note: Whoo! Over 100 reviews! Me is very very happy, and this chapter is dedicated to the lucky one-hundreth reviewer.. 

… Soulsister! Congrats to you! 

SophieB: The bucket, you see, actually belonged to Hagrid, so it was very big as buckets go. Ginny and Ludo – I dunno how they work out, I haven't planned it out that far. And – tell me – what overwhelming personality flaws does ol' Parv have? Tell me so I can correct them! 

WhiteBearWrites: Justin?… Hmm. But I have plans for Terry… *evil laugh* 

Bwaybaby79: I like Padma/Hermione. C&B is the only fic where I saw that pairing. As for H/D – I would so love to write smut, but I suck at smut… *sob sob* I'll try to maybe co-author with someone if you guys really wanna see 'em get it on. ^_~ 

* * * 

Seamus, drunk as can be, was staggering down the Hogwarts path that led to the castle gates; he carried in his arms a dozen empty bottles of Red Wand lager, the most popular beer among the Hogwarts student body. He planned to return them to get the five-Knut refund – and with the sixty Knuts he planned to buy more lager. 

Or… Maybe whisky this time. Or Gin. _Gin. Ginny. She has red hair. So does Ron. Ron…_

Disturbed at the thought of Ron, Seamus turned abruptly about and stepped without knowing it on the dock of the Hogwarts lake; he kept walking until he reached the end, where he promptly fell in, with an enormous splash – inside the eight-foot-deep water. 

A few seconds later he floated back to the surface, unhurt. The Hogwarts squid poked out a long arm and pushed him back to the shore, where Seamus lay, blubbering and breathing, immobile, small waves lapping at his knees. 

By a perfect coincidence, Ron himself walked by the lake. He was heading to Hagrid's hut but stopped when he saw the intoxicated blonde on his back in the muck. 

"Seamus? What on earth?" he asked, and, not receiving an answer, he rushed to the sandy-haired's side. 

The promiscuous boy opened a bleary, glazed eye. "Mammy?" he muttered, hooking an arm around Ron's neck, an endearing gesture of childish trust. He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled. Ron put an arm around him to keep him from falling, enjoying the heat emanating from Seamus' body, and feeling guilty about it – given the boy's current state, this was almost taking advantage of him. 

"I have to take you back to Gryffindor Tower," Ron said, "I can't leave you here." 

But there was a problem: Seamus couldn't take three steps without falling over. Ron, sighing, scooped the boy in his arms as one might cradle a baby. Seamus, accepting this, dug his chin into Ron's shoulder and began, "Mammy, I've… been… bad… aw'fly bad…" 

"Sh," said Ron, patting him on the back lovingly. He looked up. The castle was still a few dozen feet away. 

* * * 

Parvati was bored. It had been two weeks since the Dance, two weeks since she'd stepped out of her dormitory. She had missed class after class and ignored the constantly growing pile of little red slips sent to her dorm by the teachers. She was beginning to consider ending her 'period of isolation' – rumours were going about that she had killed herself. 

When one was confined to one's dormitory, there was very little that one could do. Parvati longed to go to the common room – or to class – or to Quidditch matches… She could easily get her mother to owl Dumbledore and make up an excuse for her absence at classes. 

There was a knock at the door. It was Ginny, of course – the handful of people who dared enter the dormitory, Lavender and Hermione included – would never have knocked except her. 

"Come in," Parvati called out lazily. She was gracefully sprawled on the bed, head and feet propped up with little red cushions. 

"Hey," Ginny said. She sat down on the bed, a tad shyly. 

"What's the latest news?" demanded Parvati. She hungered for gossip – malicious, spiced, evil-minded gossip – spreading horrible untruths was her favorite, most-used method of revenge. She had caused quite a few nervous breakdown in her previous Hogwarts years. 

"Nothing new," sighed Ginny, "nothing has happened all day – unless you count the fact that Neville lost his stupid toad again." 

"Neville," said Parvati pointedly, "is an idiot." 

"He's nice enough," Ginny protested, blushing from head to foot as she spoke. 

"You're only saying that because he sent you a Valentine three years ago," teased Parvati with a snort. 

"Regardless." 

"I was considering leaving my room," said Parvati, "and going down to the common room – really, if I miss any more classes, I'll have to repeat seventh year." 

"Good idea," Ginny approved instantly. "There are enough people going around saying you're dead – as if you'd kill yourself over Ron! You've got to get out of here and set them straight, you know?" 

"Yes, I know," sighed Parvati. "In fact – I think I'll change my clothes – put on some make-up –" 

"If you put on any more make-up," Ginny said with strange frankness, "you would be unable to lift your head because of the weight." 

"Oh," said a surprised Parvati. "Well, I'll go freshen up –" and she entered the bathroom, and came out minutes later with a freshly washed and made-up face. She looked lovely, and went to her wardrobe to choose an appropriate outfit. 

"Damn," she swore suddenly, "my best jeans aren't in here…" 

"Second-best," suggested Ginny, and Parvati pulled on her second-best pair, a blue-and-gold striped shirt, and she painstakingly brushed out her hair, which needed no brushing at all, and fixed it on top of her head in a Pebbles Flintstone-style ponytail. 

"Right," Parvati said with an evil hell-queen smile, "nothing's happening now, but within an hour the school will be buzzing with rumours – you wait and see…" 

* * * 

Hermione, head swimming with dizzy half-crippled thoughts, was pondering the situation. The tangled web of confusion all came down to one choice that she had to make: Terry or Padma. She felt like a salmon fighting to swim upstream. 

Terry was a perfect gentleman, who knew exactly what to say to make her feel like a million dollars, but a lash-veiled smiling glance from Padma was more likely to make her heart flutter. 

Also confusing was the fact that Padma had first kissed her three days ago, and she had dated Terry for months, and she was even considering leaving him… But then again Terry was so… so… blah. She really preferred Padma… 

Someone knocked at the door. "Come in," said Hermione wearily, and Ginny walked into the room. 

"Hi," she said, then: "you okay?" 

"I've got… a personal problem," Hermione answered somewhat stiffly. 

"Matters of the heart?" asked Ginny sagely. "Heh. Bootboy not giving you enough lovin'?" 

"Why does *everyone* call him Bootboy?" 

Ginny chose not to answer, and instead told Hermione, "I came to borrow a magazine." She walked over to Hermione's bookcase. "Witch Weekly. D'you have the issue with the review of 'Lolita'?" 

"Dunno," answered the morose Head Girl. The fragrant bouquet of hyacinths that Terry had sent did not help her in her decision-making. 

"Y'know, I'm sure they have a help column for people with problematic love lives," Ginny quipped helpfully. 

"Mm," muttered Hermione sullenly, in lieu of a reply. 

"Well, thanks," said Ginny cheerfully, rolling up the magazine and pushing it into a robe pocket. "Bye." She left the room in a flurry of red-and-black. After a few minutes, another knock. 

"What now, Gin?" exclaimed Hermione in annoyance. 

"S'not Gin," came the door-muffled reply. 

Hermione paled the tiniest bit. "Come in, Padma," she said loudly, and Padma did. She wore Muggle clothes that looked – and did – as though they had come straight out of Parvati's wardrobe: very dark very tight blue jeans, and a navy blue V-neck shirt. A blue-and-white-striped bandana (Ravenclaw colors) covered her coal-black hair; half-a-dozen bracelets jangled on her arms; she wore no makeup. 

"Hi," she said, smiling wryly. 

"I told you I'd owl you when I made a decision," Hermione told her, irritated. Padma's presence, albeit pleasant, did not help under the circumstances. 

"That was yesterday," remarked Padma, nonchalantly lying on Hermione's neatly-made bed. She stretched her legs before adding, "I figured I'd help you decide." 

"Ha." 

"No, honestly." The Ravenclaw paused to rearrange her bandana. "I won't get _very_ mad if you choose Bootboy over me. I'll just… worship from afar." 

"This is harder on me than you think," said Hermione plaintively. 

"Hermione Granger," divined Padma, "I bet you already know who you're going to go with." 

"Well…" Hermione half-blushed and directed her amber-spotlight eyes onto Padma's face; if she couldn't say it with words she would say it with her eyes – something she had learned from her mother despite herself. 

Padma, realizing immediately, smiled in a sultry way. "I told you Bootboy wasn't right for you," she said triumphantly, patting the eiderdown as an invitation. Hermione found herself getting out of her chair obediently and sitting down next to her. "He deserves a pureblood witch from a rich family who wants nothing more from life than settling down with him and bearing his brats." 

Hermione sighed, knowing that Padma spoke the truth – or a distorted version of the truth – but it still stung to hear it. 

"You're both so ambitious that it wouldn't have worked," Padma went on. "You would have seen so little of each other that the relationship would have disintegrated." 

"Meaning you're not ambitious?" Hermione arched an eyebrow; her hand traveled up and down Padma's thigh. 

"I have different ambitions," replied the black-haired, leaning down to kiss her obsession – Hermione's nose got in the way, and she giggled. "Stand _still_," whispered Padma, her hands grabbing hold of the Head Girl's shoulders; Hermione cocked her head to the side. Their lips met, and in the middle of their kiss Parvati walked in. 

"I came to return – oh," she said. "Finally gave old Bootboy the boot, huh?" She sniggered at her own joke, then dropped a worn paperback copy of Lord of the Rings on Hermione's desk. "Right. I'll just… leave you at it, then." She started to leave but stopped to add, "Don't be too noisy!" and then, "Are those _my_ pants?" 

"Fuck off," said Padma lightly, but her twin had left already, and her mouth dove into the sun-browned skin of Hermione's neck, with the intention of marking the girl's skin with possessive lovebites. 

Hermione made a vague dove-like cooing noise and hooked an arm around Padma's neck, the other behind her, holding her up; she vainly tried to remember the last time she had felt like this. But she pulled away, slightly panting. 

"Hey – come back here," said Padma. 

"I… I'd rather… tell Terry… now," Hermione managed. "Otherwise I'd feel all guilty and…" 

Padma made a sudden, small movement of fear. "What exactly are you going to tell him?" she asked in a panicky voice. 

"Why do you ask?" 

"Herm –" Padma leapt off the bed. "You can't tell him that I'm the reason you're dumping him! He'd _kill_ me!" She waved her arms around, windmill-fashion, for added emphasis. "He really would – just say it's not working out –" 

"I highly doubt he'd stoop to murder you," said Hermione with a small giggle, "but have it your way." She smoothed her robes with her palms and turned to leave. "I'll be back as soon as possible – no, on second thought meet me in the library?" 

"Okay," agreed Padma. She watched Hermione leave nervously. 

* * * 

"Well," said Draco. 

Harry said nothing, merely went on panting on the pillows. 

"_Well_," said Draco again, with more emphasis. 

"Well, what?" wheezed the Boy Who Lived. 

"Well, that goes to show how far you really can bend over," said Draco. "Oh, dinner in twenty minutes." 

"To hell with dinner," wheezed Harry, "I think I punctured a lung." 

"You punctured my ear-drums," Draco said reproachfully, as though a Malfoy's ear-drums were something irreplaceably precious. "I didn't know anyone could scream that loud." 

"You live, you learn." 

"Among other things." Draco wrinkled his nose. "You hit an octave that is usually reserved for calling dogs." 

"Well, you are a bitch sometimes," Harry said candidly. 

"Oh, shut up." Draco threw a pillow at him, then whined, "What shall I wear? I have nothing to wear. Dammit." He kicked the wardrobe door crossly, then cried out at the pain – it was rather hard wood – and spent the next few seconds hopping madly about on one foot. 

"Go naked, that would make everyone happy," suggested Harry as he ran his fingers through his hair in lieu of a comb. "Especially Snape." 

"Snape?" echoed Draco in disgust. "Ew – he's all greasy and stuff." He shuddered convulsively. 

"I saw the way he was eyeing you during Potions last week," said Harry. "Rather – not you, but your crotch." 

"The utter pervert!" exclaimed the blonde. "How about this one?" He pulled out a robe that seemed, to Harry, absolutely identical to the other one already on the bed. 

"I don't see the difference." 

"This one is _fifty_ percent cotton, and this one is eighty," explained Draco impatiently. 

"And the difference is?" 

Draco didn't answer, but rolled his eyes to the ceiling with a scoff. Harry strongly suspected that he didn't know either, and the two of them dressed in silence – Draco, of course, put on no robe, still uncertain as to whether fifty or eighty percent cotton was better. 

At that moment there came a knock at the door. 

"Methinks it's Blaise," Draco said, brightening up. 

"Uuuugh. Blaise hates me." 

"Well, she saw you sticking your fingers down your throat after she said hello to you last Tuesday," Draco told him. "That wasn't very nice. Even if you do hate her –" 

"She hates me –" 

"You could at least be civil. Come in, Blaise." 

Blaise entered, scowling, and she scowled even more as soon as she spotted Harry. "Dinner in fifteen," she said, "you'd better hurry – what the hell are you doing, Draco." 

The young Malfoy had pounced on her to examine the tag on the back of her robe. "Fifty percent," he announced, "I'll wear my fifty-percent too." 

"Oh, who cares what percentage of cotton there is in the bloody robe?" 

"I don't either," Harry said meekly but politely. Blaise shot him a glare that said plainly, 'I don't think you're good enough for Draco but I'll put up with you for his sake. Just stay the hell away from me', thus Harry shut his mouth and pursed his lips. 

"Dinner," said Draco happily, "I have a feeling something is going to happen tonight." 

"Something," growled Blaise under her breath, "will happen to Potter if he gets any closer to me." 

* * *   
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Chapter XI

  
Author's Note: I'm warning you all ahead of time that I plan to finish C&B in a couple chapters. There will be a sequel, of course - but I don't want to drag this fic on and on and on... if everything goes right chapter 15 will be the last one. 

Bondagechic: The Bootboy jokes? They're not really jokes. His name is Terry Boot and everybody calls him Bootboy. That's all there is to it. 

SoulSister: Yeah, H/P is really cute. They fit. Wonder why no one else thought of it. 

* * * 

Seamus was waking up. It felt as though someone was continuously taking a battering ram to his head. _How much did I drink? _he wondered, touching his forehead with a finger. _And what am I doing here? _The last thing he remembered was going to Hogsmeade... but he had never reached Hogsmeade. The lake... Ron. It all came back to him. _Ron._

The redhead was there, working or pretending to work, at his desk in the corner. Seamus frowned. 

"What am I doing here?" he asked. 

Ron jumped. "Oh. You're awake." 

"Answer the question," said Seamus impatiently. His stomach was growling - he'd skipped breakfast that day, had been very drunk at lunch, and had no clue how much time was left until dinner. 

"Well, I could hardly leave you to drown in the lake," shrugged Ron. 

Seamus furrowed his brow. "Oh yeah - I remember falling in." 

"You're lucky I was walking by at the moment," Ron told him, "or you would have been the squid's lunch." 

"Speaking of lunch." Seamus sat up, grimacing at the pain in his head. "I'm starving. When's dinne?" 

"Five minutes," said Ron as he glanced at his watch. 

Seamus hopped out of bed. "Right. Well, thanks - I suppose. Next time you should just leave well enough alone. You had no business bringing me up here..." 

"I saved your bloody life," said Ron indignantly as he threw a crumpled roll of parchment into his wastebasket. It was a slight exaggeration. _But all's fair in love and war._

"And I _said _thanks," retorted Seamus. "I'm going. I have things to see, people to do..." 

At this Ron whirled around involuntarily, a bit startled. "People to do?" 

"I'm the school slut, aren't I? What do you suppose I do in my spare time?" 

"You can't," yelped Ron, grabbing Seamus by the arm to prevent him from leaving. 

"I _can_," argued Seamus, making no attempt to extricate himself from Ron's grasp. "I said it was over, remember? I'm free to act as I wish." 

"Don't," pleaded Ron helplessly, pulling on Seamus' sleeve. 

Seamus' brain was functioning at a high speed that usual. He _did _love Ron, and he had only been bluffing when he had said it was over, and Ron _had _pulled him out of the water... 

"Seamus, please?..." 

On the other hand, it _was _fun to torture Ron like this... He raised an eyebrow. 

"I love you, you know, Seamus," said Ron, tearfully. 

"You might as well get on your knees and grovel properly," Seamus told him, biting back a smile. 

"Well, there _are_ limits," pouted Ron. "But... come on, Seamus, you can't run off with someone else. I _said _I love you." He stamped his foot impatiently. "What more do you want, dammit?" 

"This is rather touching," Seamus murmured, talking more to himself that to Ron. "But," he added, in a louder tone, "if I come back - _if,_" he repeated, frowning at the happy look on Ron's face, "some things will have to change." 

"Oh," said Ron. He bit his lip, obviously not expecting this, but ready to negociate. 

"Actually, just one thing." 

"Well, what _is_ it?" 

"If you even _look_ at Parvati, or mention her name, I'm leaving for good. It's not a bloody competition between me and her." 

"Oh, all right," agreed Ron. 

Seamus smiled brightly, very happy that everything had worked out and he hadn't even broken a nail - and his hangover was gone too. "So that's settled," he giggled, leaping forward and giving Ron a bear-hug. "Now let's go, shall we? We're late for dinner." 

* * * 

"Terry?" The word broke the peaceful silence of the room into a thousand pointed shards. Hermione, who had just spoken, bit her lip in nervous anticipation and leaned heavily across the doorframe. 

He turned around and smiled widely when he saw her, having recognized her voice nanoseconds before. It hit Hermione like a kick in the stomach to see how happy her only presence made him. She hated herself for what she had to do, wished herself miles away, wished Padma had never spoken to her... 

_But you're not doing this for Padma,_ an annoying voice in her head spoke up. _You're doing this for you. It has nothing to do with her. You're doing this because you don't love him; you just needed Padma to realize that. You should thank her, when this is over._

"You came just in time," said Terry. "I was about to leave in two minutes to go to dinner." He walked over to her, and, barely inches away, he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, but she pushed him away, and stared at the floor with intimidated determination. 

"I... oh, Terry, I can't see you anymore." 

"What?" asked Terry, stunned. Then, surprisingly, he _laughed _- and said, "Hermione, April Fools' is next week." 

"I'm _serious,_" Hermione said, raising her head to look at him, feverishly. "I'm - I'm sorry - I really am, but..." 

This time Terry looked away, like a brightly-coloured balloon that had been deflated by a malicious child. Hermione felt like a murderess. 

"I'm sorry - but I can't - can't see you anymore," she stammered, tears overflowing. "I - I did some thinking and - and, Terry, I don't... love you like I thought I did." 

"Is there someone else?" Terry asked hollowly. 

"No," said Hermione, but, because that sounded like a lie, she added, "Well, someone just confessed that she - or he - loves me, but that has nothing to do with it - oh, _don't _cry!" The last thing she needed was someone crying over her. _As if I don't feel bad enough as it is! _"Terry, I..." 

He gave her no time to finish her sentence; he ran out of the room, robes billowing, and her cries of "Terry, wait!" did not stop him. 

Hermione sighed. 

_Oh well. I did my best. And I'm late for dinner._

_* * *_

Ginny was having dinner at the moment, but not at Hogwarts, but at a restaurant in Hogsmeade far enough from the school. Elven Treats for the Palate, it was called, and she disliked the name, but raved about the food. 

"Thish ish delishus," she said, between mouthfuls. "But what ish it?" 

Ludo laughed. "They never say. It's not on the menus." 

"I'll ashk." 

"If you ask, they won't tell you, love." 

"Why not?" demanded Ginny. 

"The thing about Elven food, Virginia, is that while the result is good, the ingredients are... not that good. So they don't ever say what they put in their food because it would scare half the customers away - the other half know about it." 

"Oh," said Ginny, looking somewhat suspiciously at her food. 

"That might be in fact broiled toadstools," said Ludo, grinning wickedly. "Or - Niffler liver with a side dish of beetle eyes." 

Ginny choked. 

"I told you you don't want to know what's in it." 

"Well, it tastes good, anyway." 

"True." 

"So..." said Ginny, trailing off. _I wonder why we can never have a _long _intelligent conversation. Have we nothing to say to each other? Dammit._

"So, what?" 

"What's after dinner?" she asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively, her foot trailing up and down his leg. 

Ludo gulped. "Well. Ahem." He coughed. 

"What?" she said impatiently, nudging his crotch with her toe. 

"You... are one very dirty little girl." 

"Watch it or I'll kick," she warned, smiling - she meant it. 

"I... is that _McGonnagall?_" 

Ginny whirled around. "Shit! It is!" She cursed creatively under her breath. 

"Wow. I had no idea you could do _that_ with a broomstick." 

"Shut up, this is no time for jokes - dammit! I have to run." She glared at McGonnagall's retreating figure. "This sucks." 

"Yes - what's worse than having a chance to swiftly destroy the Bagman family jewels with one kick, and missing the opportunity?" he asked sarcastically.   
"Oh, shut _up,_" Ginny ordered, pulling her cloak on - he had bought her a new one, which suited her much better; it was navy blue silk, and very warm. 

"Goodbye." He leaned down to kiss her, and she pulled the hood of her cloak on her head, and ran off into the distance. 

* * * 

Blaise had decided not to go to dinner after all; the only thing Draco would talk about was Potter - was he so blind that he couldn't see she despised the boy? _Irritating blonde, _she thought as she entered the library. _Too thick for his own good. Potter's influence, of course. He wasn't stupid to begin with._

At least the library was nearly empty - nearly, the only other ones being Madam Pince and - 

Terry Boot. 

Alone. 

Without Granger. 

Blaise gasped, then smiled - her smile turned into an evil smirk. She had been plotting how to win Terry's heart since mid-sixth year, and - just as she had a good plan - enter Granger, Head Girl - _but what kind of 'head'? - _and Terry had been taken. 

She walked over to him, trying very hard not to sashay, and said, "Terry?... Hi. Where's Hermione?" _I hope the bitch is dead._

Terry looked at her with his red-rimmed eyes. "Blaise. It's... it's over between us." 

_Better and better! _It took every ounce of will-power she had to keep from wildly grinning in victory. _Why, I'll just play the part of sympathetic listener, and he'll fall for me before he knows it! This is perfect!_

"Oh, I'm sorry," she breathed, patting his arm gently. "But these things happen." 

"Not to me." 

"To everyone," she corrected, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "Do you mind talking about it?" She had to hear of how it came about, to prevent the same from happening to her - them - once there _was_ a 'them'. 

"She just... dumped me... " He gulped in air as though he was drowning. "Do you have any idea how that feels? I thought - I loved her - I still do - we were fucking soulmates," he hissed. "She was my light in the dark - the pearl among the swine - and I lost her. And I don't even know what I did wrong." 

"It's not your fault," she cooed in mock-sympathy. Terry, too miserable to notice the 'mock' part, went on recklessly: 

"She just came and - and said she couldn't - couldn't see me anymore. And I asked if there was someone else and she said no - but that was obviously a lie - why else would she just... say that?" He looked at her pleadingly, as though he thought she knew the answer to that. 

"I don't know," she said soothingly. 

"But she _did_ say that someone had confessed that they had a crush on her - Hey!" he suddenly cried out, gaining a few dirty looks from Madam Pince. "She said 'she'! _SHE!_ It was Padma!" 

"Terry, calm down," she hissed, but he leapt up angrily, like a cork bobbing on water. 

"_Padma!_" he hissed as he ran towards the door. 

Blaise watched him go, angrily disappointed. She got up as well, with a frustrated sigh. "Someone _always_ fucks up my plans," she muttered as she left. 


	12. Chapter XII

  
Author's Note: I am working on my website, and needless to say I SUCK AT HTML. I need HTML help. If you can in any way perhaps help me - pleeeeeeeeeease do. I beg of you. 

This chapter is dedicated to SophieB, who never fails to make my day with really long reviews. ^_^ 

Do: I think I crank out these chapters pretty fast. 12 and 13 were released the same day - I think. I know that a little H/D action would be well-accepted, but I can't write 'action' for shit, pardon my language. 

Bondagechic: Well, Terry knows it's Padma because an obsession like Padma's can't really be kept hidden for long now can it? And Hermione is _not _dense, LOL, she knows perfectly well what Terry's last name is. But she doesn't understand why he's called Bootboy because Ron, for instance, is not called Weasley-Boy by everyone. 

Coriander: Blaise would doubtlessly be pissed at you for calling her cute, but she _is_ cute when she gets mad. That girl takes herself too seriously. 

SophieB: You're right about Parvati hating her set ideas being disturbed, but I think that's part of her charm. And Female Draco Malfoy? That's what I was thinking when I characterized her, LoL. But she's not a lesbian. And you want Terry and Blaise out of the story? Or you want _them?_ That part confused me a bit; Seamus and Ron aren't fixed, but wouldn't it be nice if they were. Harry and Draco will have problems a bit later on (I wrote a fic about that, but it somehow got erased, and I'n mourning it now.) And about a bit over a month has passed since the beginning. 

Bwaybaby79: Hey, it IS ironic, I never noticed that. Hehee, thanks for pointing it out. 

Alena: Utterly brilliant? Oooh, I'd love to think so. 

* * * 

The Great Hall was alive with the sounds of utensils hitting tableware, laughter, loud talking, the occasional belch met by the "Eww"s of the belcher's Housemates. The Slytherin table was perhaps the noisiest of all. Draco could feel a migraine coming on, and saw Blaise grimacing as well. 

"You feeling all right?" he asked. 

She shook her head and pouted, glaring at her bowl of pea-soup, looking slightly elven like all the Malfoys and relatives of the Malfoys; but she was pouting and sullen. Draco remembered his fourth birthday party, to which she had been invited. 

"Hi, Blaise," he had said, "I've got a chocolate cake with pink icing!" 

Blaise had nodded to show she had heard, and kicked a passing house-elf: "I'm glad I came. I was so bored at home." 

"What were you doing at home?" Draco had inquired politely, thinking of his cake and the inevitable mound of presents awaiting him. 

"Setting my Barbie dolls on fire," Blaise had answered. 

"Huh?" 

"It's so much fun to watch their features melt and dribble down their heads," Blaise had told him, smirking in wicked satisfaction as she remembered how she had dismembered many a pink-clad Barbie. "I name them after people I hate." 

"Oh-kay," Draco had said, privately thinking that his small cousin might be mentally disturbed. 

"I put a frog brain inside a Ken's head, and gave him 'lectro-shock ther'py to ressus'tate him, but it didn't work," Blaise had added solemly, "not enough voltage." 

The flashback vanished, and the present-day Blaise looked up to Draco. 

"I can't wait for this day to be over," she said mournfully, kicking a table leg. 

"I've had a nice day," Draco said mildly, "me and Ha-" 

"I don't want to hear," she hastily interrupted. 

"Ooh, you spoilsport," pouted Draco. "And I was going to describe it in great detail too." 

"Spare me," hissed Blaise. She glanced across the room to the Ravenclaw table, where Terry and Padma were sitting on opposite sides of the table as far away from each other as possible, and at the Gryffindor table where Granger hung her head so low that strands of her hair drooped onto Longbottom's plate - the fool didn't notice and went on eating with steady placidity. 

"Well, what went so wrong in your day?" 

"For one thing, it's Sunday, which means there are classes tomorrow, so the whole day is shot in advance... I don't want to talk about it." She noticed Padma getting up from the table hurriedly and rushing out of the Great Hall, and smirked to herself. 

"Well, I - where're you going?" 

Blaise turned around, knowing instinctively that Padma would go to Granger's dormitory - it made sense that the Ravenclaw would avoid the library, which was Terry's hangout. She planned to follow and have a chat with the girl. 

"Blaise, where are you going?" 

She didn't answer. She was already gone. 

* * * 

"It's weird..." 

"What is?" Ginny turned to look at Parvati while she neatly folded her blue silk cloak and hung it on a coat-hanger. 

"All these new things you have," continued Parvati. The two had eaten as quickly as possible, since Ginny had needed to copy one of Parvati's old essays for History of Magic - the two-rolls-of-parchment essay was three days late already, and Binns was known for substracting many points for each day that homework was late. 

"What on earth do you mean." 

"New cloak - _silk _- new luxury peacock-feather quill - _two _of them - new earrings, too," said Parvati. "Now, don't tell me that you managed to buy all those things with the pocket money your mummy sends you each month?" 

"I - I... have a secret admirer," said Ginny lamely. _Well, that's not too far from the truth, now is it?_

_"Really?_ Do tell," smiled Parvati. "Are you close to guessing who it is?" 

Ginny shook her head. 

"It could be Colin Creevey," mused Parvati. "I heard he got his dirty little paws on quite a lot of gold after he sold those nude pictures of Harry in the shower." She sniggered at the memory of having found a very unsuspecting Harry being the centerfold of Witch Weekly. 

The red-haired blushed crimson. "I... doubt it," she said, shaking her head. 

"I had a secret admirer once," said Parvati a bit dreamily, "but it was Sirius Black, which really pissed me off. I hate him." 

"Oh." 

"And then I had another secret admirer who turned out to be three Hufflepuff guys. They only sent me candy. Remember, the week where I had all those pimples?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"If you guess who it is, you'll tell me, won't you." It was not a request, it was a command. 

"Can we change the subject and not talk about my love life?" asked Ginny. "Like, what new rumours have you heard? What strange things have happened in the school?" 

"Strange thing happened to _me,_" said Parvati. "I went to Hermione's room the other day to return a book she lent me, and I caught her snogging my sister Padma. Now _that_ was unexpected. And plus Padma had borrowed my best jeans without asking, which really pissed me off." 

"Hermione... and your sister?" said Ginny, raising her eyebrows. "Whoa. Who'd have thought?" 

"Not me," chortled the older girl. "I suppose Hermione's feeling guilty about cheating on Bootboy - probably why she looked so downcast at dinner." 

"I wonder who jumped on who," said Ginny. 

"Oh, there's no doubt that Padma suggested it," Parvati told her, "she's been after Hermione for years, although she tried to keep her 'obsession' hidden. But when you're twins there's no hiding things. I suppose a few Ravenclaws know it too - and if old Bootboy knows it, and Hermione dumps him for Padma, he might kill my sister. What a loss _that _would be." 

"Dat shit is whack," remarked Ginny, lighting a Wizzy-Lite and offering one to Parvati, who politely declined. 

"Well, I -" Parvati abruptly stopped speaking. A lightbulb had gone off in her head. Terry Boot was handsome, smart and single - probably - she was beautiful, smart and single... Why not give him a try, even if he _was_ Head Boy? 

"Well, what?" said Ginny, blowing a smoke ring. 

"Nothing," said Parvati. "I have to go." She hopped off the bed, grinning to herself, and walked out the door. 

* * * 

Hermione felt awful. Whenever she closed her eyes, Terry's haunted tortured dark brown ones danced in her head. _I wasn't meant to be a heartbreaker,_she told herself vehemently. It seemed as though lately the world was falling in love with her and she didn't like it. 

She knew perfectly well that if it hadn't been for her friendship with Harry, she would have been a nobody. And that suited her. She wanted to blend in, be another dark bit of the shadows, read her books and be teacher's pet in peace without the world watching, like they watched Parvati. One person in love with her was quite enough, but two was unthinkable, and scared her. 

She played with her hair absently as she pondered the situation. She had given advice, now she needed advice; but who could she get it from? It seemed doubtful that any male could know what she should do. What girl could advise her? 

One name came into her head _- Parvati. _She wouldn't even have to explain the Padma-Terry situation as Parvati already knew she was snogging her sister. But could she bring herself to even ask for advice in the first place? It seemed so odd to be brought to discuss her lovelife with somebody else. And she and Parvati weren't even close - they were friends because there was no one else to be friends with. 

She made her way down to the common room to see if Parvati was there. 

She was. 

"Hey Parv," called Hermione. "Do you have a minute?" 

"I was just going, actually," said Parvati, "can you make it quick?" 

Hermione pondered this. "No," she said, "it would take a while." 

"Then we'll talk later," Parvati told her firmly. "But - hey, you and Terry and through, right?" 

"Yeah," nodded the Head Girl, grimacing painfully at the memory, "I let him down gently this afternoon." 

"So you don't mind if he, uh, starts seeing someone else, do you?" asked the dark-haired girl. 

"Why would I? But - oh. Parv, no offence meant, but you're not really Terry's... type." 

"_You_ thought you were his type, but if you had been, you'd still be with him today," retorted Parvati hotly. 

"He rather likes... intellectuals," finished Hermione, "And you're not... really... uh, I mean.." 

"You mean you think I'm stupid," Parvati completed the sentence. "But, my dear Hermione, I've long ago stopped giving a damn about what _you_ think about me." She shook her head, sending her hair in all directions, then added as she jumped through the portrait hole, "I've learned that there are people you have to impress in order to get anywhere - you're not one of them. Ta-ta." 

She was gone. 

"You'll be sorry you said that when I'm Minister of Magic," said Hermione. 

* * * 

"I don't know why Blaise doesn't like me." 

"She just doesn't." 

"But why doesn't she?" 

"I don't fucking know." 

"Aren't I always nice to her?" 

"There are people you just don't like, Harry. Deal with it." 

"I want her to like me." 

"Why?" 

"Because." 

"Could we change the subject and speak of something _other_ than Blaise?" asked Draco meaningfully. 

"What do you mean?" 

"......" 

"... oh." 

"Hm?" 

"When you put it that way..." 

"Indeed." 

"....." 

Madam Pince looked up reprovingly. 

"... maybe we should continue this somewhere else." 

".... hm?" 

"Or at least in the next chapter." 

".... okay." 

* * *   
  



	13. Chapter XIII

Author's Note: Well, I am frankly surprised and delighted - at myself, partly (I think I'm developing and ego - is "developping" with two p's?) 

Libbeh: d00d! G1nnyz a ho! u no dat. 

Bwaybaby79: Well, arrogant and bitchy is what good ol' Parv does best. 

Whitebearwrites: Well, I wouldn't call Parvati a whore - she's a flirty veela-like bitch but she doesn't sleep around - she doesn't think anyone is good enough for her. 

Bondagechic: Heartbreaker, moi? LMAO. As for "more, please" girl, you got a fic dedicated to you (if it shows up on ffnet before I post this) 

SoulSister: It's so confusing I have to read my own chapter again, before starting the next one, because I lose track of what's been going on! 

SophieB: She hates him because *I* hate him. Can't stand Sirius Black. 

FritterGal: Naughty?... all right, I'll try. 

Dedicated to... uh... dammit, dunno to who. Hang on a sec... 

Okay, to Fyrekun, regardless of whether or not he's already had a dedication. 

Oh, and would some of you guys be so kind as to drop a review on Silver Death? I rewrote it and fixed some bits. 

* * * 

"You've got to stop sending me all those presents," Ginny said to Ludo somewhat reproachfully, a week and a day since she had spoken to Parvati. 

"Why?" Ludo raised an eyebrow. "That's the first time I've heard _that_ line come from the mouth of a woman." 

"People are getting suspicious," explained Ginny. "Notably, Parvati asked me how I can afford all that -" she waved her arms to indicate she meant every single thing he had sent her, the quill, the cloak, the jewelry "- on the pocket money my mum sends me." 

"Parvati should mind her own business, if you ask me," Ludo said huffily. "It's not her affair-" 

"-that's right, it's our affair." Ginny chuckled at her pun. 

Ludo blushed only the tiniest bit, and, after making sure that the door was locked and the window-blinds were pulled down, not letting through a single speck of light, kissed her heatedly. 

"Mrrf," went Ginny. 

"..." 

"Ludo, love?" 

"...?...." 

"You're slobbering on my ear." 

"... oh." 

"And on my robes. I'll have to get them dry-cleaned now." 

"I'll buy you new robes." 

"Haven't you been listening to me? You _can't_." 

"Plain black robes, Virginia, who would notice?" 

"Well..." 

"Who could possibly know that _I _bought them for you?" 

"... true." 

There was a sudden, shy rap at the door, starting them both. A house-elf's voice called out, "Master Bagman, is you needing anything?" 

"No, do sod off," Ludo said rudely, through the wood of the door. He got up to check that the door was locked, again. On the bed, Ginny crossed and uncrossed her legs expectantly. 

"I do wish I were eighteen," she said, trying to hike up her robe without him noticing. 

"Why?" came the rather absent-minded reply to her comment. 

"Because then you wouldn't risk getting in to Azkaban for sleeping with me." 

Ludo blushed again, his cheeks almost the same tint as her hair. "Well - I haven't exactly - slept with you." 

"Of course, blowjobs don't count." She nodded sagely, and his face turned the colour of blood. 

"You're so - so vulgar," he finally managed. 

"But you like that," Ginny said, laughing throatily. "It... turns.... you.... on..." 

Another thing that turned him on was the way she gracefully slunk off the bed, pinned him on an armchair, and sat in his lap, kissing him slowly, softly. He grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her closer, kissing her back hard enough to bruise, drinking in her rose-petal lips. 

"Mrrr." 

"....." 

"Well, you're still quite lively for your age," she assessed, undoing the buttons on his robe-collar dexterously. "Well-preserved..." 

"Oh, shut up." 

"Make me," she laughed, tugging her own robe off. Ludo gasped and... 

At that moment the author discovered that if she continued in this vein, she would have to bump the fic up to an NC-17, which she did not feel like doing, so she abruptly switched pairings, not caring if she was confusing the readers (yes, all three of you!). 

* * * 

"Why don't you like me?" Harry demanded Blaise, cornering her as she tried to enter the library. 

"What?" she hissed, trying to shake him off. She could see Terry inside, staring into space, not even trying to pretend that he was reading the thick book before him. 

"Why don't you like me?" Harry repeated his absurd question. 

"Because you're idiotic. Now let go!" She attempted to kick him in the crotch, but Harry, who had Quidditch-born Seeker reflexes, rapidly dodged. 

"I want to know. Everyone likes me. Except you." He pouted stupidly, making him look, in Blaise's eyes, more moronic than ever. 

"Because you're an annoying little git. Because you act like you're all that. Because you sleep with Draco even though you're _so_ not good enough for him. Because you look like a nerd with those glasses - get contacts! Because your hair makes you look like you were the result of an accident between your mother and a black Muppet from Sesame Street. Because right now I have somewhere important to be, and you're detaining me!" She managed to elbow him in the stomach, and pushed him away. 

"You hurt my feelings," whined Harry, doubled over, wincing in pain. 

"Go suck some -" But at that moment she spotted Terry getting up from the table, and, kicking Harry aside, she ran into the library, trying not to squeal like an excited fangirl. "Hello, Terry." 

"Blaise." His voice was emotionless. "You caught me at a bad time. I was just leaving." 

"Oh, where are you heading?" 

"Astronomy Tower." 

Better and better... She hid a grin behind her hand and followed Terry out of the library. Harry inspected the floor from close-up as she passed. 

"Stargazing may help me forget." 

"Did she say why she dumped you?" asked Blaise delicately, looking up at him. 

"No, but it's quite obvious. Deduction, you see. She was being hit on by... a girl in my House." 

"Oh my." She feigned disbelief. "Who would have thought?" 

"Well, I knew that utter... _bitch_... - and I don't mean Hermione by that - had a thing for Hermione, but you'd think she'd have the decency to stay away, for crissakes!" 

"How... mean of her." She gripped his arm, trying to make it seem as though she only wanted to comfort him and not slam him into the nearest broom closet and strip him and.... Her eyes glazed over. 

"I know. Horrid thing to do." 

"Well, time heals." She patted his shoulder awkwardly. "You'll get over her. Why, I bet you five Galleons that by the end of the year it won't even sting to think of her." _If it all works out my way, he won't even remember her name. Mwahahaha!..._

"You're right, I suppose, Blaise, but.... well, I'm still in shock. As you said, who would have thought?" 

"Not me," she said comfortingly. 

"And I never would have thought that... I mean, look, a Ravenclaw lesbian hits on her, and she - instead of telling her to fuck off, Hermione dumps _me_ for Padma Patil!" He was very red in the face, and he mechanically clenched and unclenched his fists. 

"Oh, I -" 

"I am going to kill that little slut," said Terry in a voice quite unlike his usual one. 

"Oh," said a very surprised Blaise, "which one?" 

"Padma, of course," said Terry, "are you suggesting that -" 

"No, no, of course not," the Slytherin girl said instantly. _I'd better watch my words._ "But - surely murder is a bit rash? You're hardly the homicidal type." 

"Oh, you're right, of course." 

"You should recite the alphabet backwards ten times, before you act out on your anger," she told him, remembering the anger-management classes her parents had sent her to the year before. 

"All right, I'll give it a try. Z, Y, X, V - no, W - V, U, T..." 

"Keep going..." 

"S, R, Q... uh, M, no, I mean, uh, P... O, N, M, L..." 

"Uh huh?" 

"K... J, I, H..." 

"All right, that's enough alphabet-reciting for now." 

* * * 

"You've _got_ to help me, Hermi!" 

Padma had burst into the little room that was Hermione's sanctuary, wringing her hands and looking quite terrified. She lept onto the bed, next to Hermione, and panted. 

"What on earth?" demanded the Head Girl. "What happened to you, girl? You look like you just ran a marathon." 

"Worse than that!" exclaimed Padma, putting Hermione's hand on her chest so that Hermione could feel her erratic heartbeat. "Terry wants to kill me." 

"What?" 

"You've got to - to hide me - and-or protect me... I'm too young to die!" She sat between Hermione's legs, almost tearfully, and sniffled. 

"Come now, he's not going to kill you - I've known him for months and he's not the killer type." 

"He hates me!" Padma shuddered. "He hates me because he thinks that - that I'm the reason you left him..." 

"Well, he's right," Hermione pointed out, kissing her on the forehead to calm her down. 

"Help meeeee," groaned the Ravenclaw girl, snuggling up to Hermione. 

"I'll protect you with my life," vowed the other, rolling her eyes as she spoke. "He's not going to do anything to you, you know - but I am..." She chuckled, and kissed Padma again, on the collarbone this time. "I'll make sure of that." 

Padma sniffled but still purred with pleasure. "I knew you'd save me," she murmured lovingly, "because you're an angel...yes, you are." She suddenly burst into song: "_Heaven must be missing an angel... 'cause you are here with meeeeeeeeeeeee..._" 

"Oh, come on. My hair is awful, my nose is starting to freckle, I've got three pimples on various spots on my face - and you compare me to heavenly creatures." 

"Well, I mean it," Padma said. "It's my honest opinion." 

"_My _honest opinion is that you might be slightly drunk," Hermione giggled. 

"I am _not_ drunk, Hermi," said Padma, pulling herself up into a sitting position. "But, really - can I hide out here? He _will _murder me if he sees me... look, I won't be a bother, I'll sleep in there." She gestured towards Hermione's closet. 

"And that would really give new meaning to the term 'closet lesbian'," laughed Hermione. 

"This is no time for puns." 

"Well, you suggested it." 

"All things considered I'd much rather sleep in your bed, but..." 

"_Padma!_" 

"What? A girl can dream, can't she?" Padma snorted, then yawned. 

"Good _night,_" said Hermione, in a tone that indicated she wanted no arguing. 

* * * 

Seamus stretched, wiggling his toes, and turned to Ron. "I'd like a bag of potato chips," he said, grinning a tad wickedly. "Be a dear and run down to the kitchens and get one for me?" 

Ron pouted in a very fetching way, but Seamus raised an eyebrow; Ron got up and scampered out through the portrait hole. 

"Amazing," said Lavender, "I've tried for years to train a Weasley, but they just wouldn't obey. How do you get him to listen to you?" She dropped her copy of _Witch Weekly _in her lap and looked at him inquiringly. 

"Simple, my dear," Seamus chuckled, "I threaten to go on a sex strike if he won't do my bidding." 

"Sex strike? What's _that_?" demanded the curious bubble-brained blonde. 

"Well, it's like a hunger strike, except on a hunger strike you don't eat, and on a sex strike you don't..." He coughed discreetly. 

"Ohhhhhhhhh," went Lavender as the small, rusty wheels in her brain started to turn. "I see." 

Seamus grinned to himself. Actually Ron's sudden obedience was due to Seamus' "I don't see why I should forgive you" argument. The second-to-youngest Weasley, determined to woo Seamus - who had been wooed so many times it was getting quite boring - by giving in to the Irish boy's each and every whim. 

_Quite enjoyable,_ he thought with satisfaction as Ron, sweaty and panting - _Ooh, just the way I like him_ - came back into the common room. He tossed the chip bag at Seamus. 

"Barbecue?" The sandy-haired one wrinkle his nose. "I wanted salt and vinegar. Go back and get it for me." 

"But Seamus..." protested the out-of-breath Ron. 

"Do it," ordered Seamus. "These are the wrong sort of chips! I will not eat the wrong sort of chips!" He hopped off the common-room sofa, and tossed the chip-bag into a corner - it hit Neville Longbottom on the head. ("Mm, yummy," said Neville, and he ripped the bag open and commenced stuffing himself.) 

"All right," grumbled Ron, jumping out of the portrait hole again. 

"Hee hee," went Seamus. 

"You evil evil boy." Lavender grinned and even Parvati smiled indulgently. 

* * * 


	14. Chapter XIV

  
Author's note: My plan to end C&B in 15 chapters has failed utterly. I'm going for less than thirty. 

SophieB: Sirius is... ecky. Dragonhide-leather prat. When I hear the words '3 1/2 floppy' and 'chilly willy' I think of him. And Blaise is really cool. And Terry might or might not murder Padma. 

Do: Evil and... random? - oh, bytheway, you satisfied with my uploading speed? 

SoulSister: Yep, by the leash.. Mwahahahaha. 

* * * 

"Mhmm. Draco, geroff, I need air." 

"But this is the next chapter. There's supposed to be smut here." 

"... who says?" 

"The author, you prat. Duh." 

"...oh." 

"A lot of people want 'action' so she's got to write some. Popular demand." 

"I see." 

"She has no choice." 

"...." 

"Although if the whole thing will be in _dialogue_ with no description, how will the readers know what we're doing?" 

"_Touche._" 

"..." 

"..." 

"I don't think she got the hint." 

**"Yes, I did."**

"Are you eavesdropping?" 

**"No, I'm writing this. Shut up."**

"Make me." 

**"Fine, I will."**

And so the out-of-patience author ended the conversation with a trio of asterisks. 

* * * 

Parvati, in the library, had spotted Terry Boot and had walked over to him. Apparently enthralled by the book he was readng (_101 Ways to Cook House-Elf Testicles_) he had not noticed her, but she soon took care of that. 

"Hi!" she said brightly. 

"H-hi," he answered. At first he looked surprised at her intrusion, then, as he noticed she so closely resembled Padma, he frowned darkly at her, and grit his teeth. 

"Sorry to disturb you," Parvati said sweetly, "but I'm having trouble with the essay that Professor Binns set us for next Tuesday." This, of course, was a lie; she couldn't care less about the essay and planned to blackmail Padma into doing it for her - but it was a good pretext and had been rehearsed so often it sounded perfectly sincere. 

"Oh?" 

"I was wondering if you could help me - if it's not too much of a bother, of course." She laughed. "I think History of Magic is everyone's worst subject - I mean, is there _any_one who listens to Binns' Hoover-like voice?" 

"I think he's a brilliant historian," said Terry dryly. 

"... oh. Well, can you help me?" She tossed her long hair over her shoulder for emphasis. 

"Of course," sighed Terry. 

_Mwahaha. _Parvati smiled beguilingly at him, and sat down next to him. "Excellent. I've got my quill and parchment right here -" and she pulled a roll of yellowed parchment and a eagle-owl quill from her robe pocket. 

"You want to start now?" 

"Why not?" 

"All right then." He sighed again, deeply, and added, "Do you have your History of Magic book?" 

"Oh.... no, I forgot it." She cursed mentally, then got up, smoothing the front of her robe with her hands. "I'll go get it, shall I? I'll be right back, don't move an inch..." And she was off. 

On her way out she bumped into Blaise, who had been lurking by the library door for God knows what reason, and who ignored Parvati's hurried "I'm sorry" and grabbed her by the elbow, ramming her into the wall. 

"Ow!" Parvati cried out. "Let me go, Zabini, you sick freak." 

"Just _what_ do you think you're doing, Patil?" she snarled, looking particularly werewolf-ish at that moment. 

"What do you mean?" demanded Parvati, trying to pry Blaise's fingers off her. "Let go - you're bruising my skin." 

"To hell with your skin." Blaise glared at her, cheeks reddening with anger. "Terry Boot is _mine_. Mine. So you keep your manicured little hands off him. Understand?" 

"What?..." Suddenly Parvati began to laugh. Blaise, who abhorred being laughed at, glared even more. "He doesn't _belong_ to anyone and if I want a go at him, you can't stop me, Zabini." The laughter stopped and she turned on her heels and headed towards her dormitory, to fetch the History of Magic book. 

As soon as she was gone, Blaise rushed into the library, and sat down next to Terry, who seemed very surprised at this turn in events. _Oh, fuck, he's still expecting Patil to come back._ Her long fingers gripped the wand in her pocket. _Well, there's no other way..._ Quick as lightning, she pulled her wand out, pointed it at him, and cast a memory charm. His eyes immediately glazed over, and she snapped her fingers in his face; startled, he stared in a puzzled way at her. 

"What happened?" He sounded groggy, as though he had just woken up. 

"You dozed off. Must have been a boring book." Shrugging, she picked it up. "Ah. House-elf testicles." A pause, then: "Do house-elves even _have_ testicles?" 

"I never stopped to make sure," he quipped, and she smiled darkly at him. "But wasn't Parvati here a few minutes ago?" he added. 

"Parvati? Oh... no, of course not - I haven't seen her all day." Blaise crossed her fingers behind her back. 

Another pause. 

"So, do you still plan to murder Padma?" 

"Well, I don't know," he admitted. "I mean, Azkaban is not exactly an island resort." 

"Chickened out?" 

He didn't answer. 

"Well, there are hit men in the Ministry you could hire," Blaise said nonchalantly, "if you knew what Department to go to." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well, that sounds... interesting." 

"It sure is. Of course, I wouldn't rely on hit men... they're extremely expensive and the cheapest ones threaten you with blackmail after the deed is done. If you're going to kill someone it's best that not too many people know about it. So you don't want to go dragging a third party in this." 

"Might as well not kill her at all," said Terry, sighing at all the complications. 

"I think you should wait. At least until a few months after graduation." Blaise smiled, her foot grazing his knee. "Because if you kill her right away - why, you'll be the prime suspect, since she's the reason your girlfriend dumped you. No, you don't want people knowing you did it. This time next year you might be able to do it without anyone thinking it was you." 

"You seem to know an awful lot about murder," remarked Terry. 

"Oh, I've never killed anybody," said Blaise. Under her breath she added, "Not yet." 

* * * 

Meanwhile, the author decided to forgive Draco's rudeness and let him snog Harry to his heart's content. 

Which he did, judging by the high-pitched yelps and moans coming from his dormitory. 

* * * 

"Why's it always your dormitory?" asked Harry poutingly, his hand bathed in a puddle of the sunlight that poured through the open window and onto the pillows. 

"Because mine's nicer," Draco answered. 

"Is not," giggled Harry, his left hand trailing up and down Draco's chest. Draco leaned down to kiss his ear, nibbling on it delicately, his tongue tickling Harry's earlobe, and Harry giggled again. He pulled Draco closer. 

"Mmh," went Draco, moving from his ear to his neck, head cocked at a forty-five degree angle, lightly biting Harry's neck as though he were a vampire. 

"That tickles," whispered Harry, making a feverish grab for Draco's crotch. 

"Eeep!" yelped Draco. 

".... sorry." 

"Usually I wouldn't mind. But you squeeze too hard." 

"There's such a thing as too hard?" giggled Harry, making up for his squeezing by petting the blonde. 

"Of course there is, you scarred git." Smirking malevolently, Draco suddenly kneed Harry in the balls. 

"_OW!_" 

"See? _That_ was too hard." 

"You bastard," whined Harry, inspecting the damage. 

"Well, you started it." 

There was a pause, during which both young men looked away from each other and Harry rubbed his sore balls, pouting. _He pouts more than me_, Draco said to himself bemusedly, _and it does look ridiculous on him. I wonder why _I _got a reputation of a pouty little slut? I don't pout nearly as much as him._

"Sorry," he finally said, gruffly, kissing Harry's neck again for forgivance. 

"I forgive you," came Harry's soft voice. 

* * * 

"He's really going to kill me," whimpered Padma. 

"He is not," laughed Hermione, running a small hand through the Ravenclaw's coal-black hair. "He's not the homicidal type, I told you. Anyway, I'll protect you." She smiled, feeling very maternal with Padma leaning against her, head on her chest - Padma hadn't noticed the closeness between herself and Hermione's breasts, and was behaving very much like a woeful child in need of comforting. 

"Yeah, but he's half a foot taller than you, Hermi, and much stronger." 

"You're making mountains out of molehills," Hermione told her. "Relax." 

"Easy for you to say. You don't have the Head Boy of Hogwarts after your blood." 

"Ye bad ho," said Hermione, trying not to giggle. "By the way, is my closet comfortable?" 

"Not really," grumbled Padma, annoyed because she wasn't being taken seriously. "It's not big enough." 

"Your problem. I told you to sleep in your own dormitory." 

"On the other hand, your bed..." 

"You are _not_ sleeping in my bed," said Hermione severely, sounding very much like McGonagall. 

"But why not? It's very roomy. It's too much space for one person. Pleeease, Hermi? A person can't _sleep_ in a closet." She pouted in a very fetching way and Hermione felt her legs gradually turn to jelly. 

"Harry slept in a cupboard for eleven years," she told Padma, "and I'd like to point out that _your_ bed, in _your _dormitory, in _your _House, is exactly the same size!" 

"But if I go back to _my _bed, to _my _dormitory, to _my _House," cried Padma shrilly, "they'll find me in a bloodstained heap the next morning, you alarmingly heartless sexy person you!" 

Hermione blushed at the 'sexy'. "Fine, I'll magick up a cot for you. Happy?" 

"No," grumbled Padma again, "that's not the point." 

"The point is," smiled the Head Girl, "that if I slept in that closet as well you wouldn't be complaining so bloody much, now would you?" She raised an eyebrow. 

"You begin to catch on," laughed Padma. 

"Incidentally, I think your sister is trying to seduce Bootboy," announced Hermione. 

Padma shrugged. 

"It must run in the family judging by the way you tried to seduce _me,_" added Hermione. 

"She chases everything in pants. I chased everything in skirts." 

"Chased, past tense?" 

"Well, duh, I wouldn't flirt with every hot girl since I got - the desire of my heart." She stretched on the red-and-gold eiderdown, yawning fit to make her head roll off. 

"Go to sleep," Hermione told her. 

"_Where_?" asked Padma, looking at her pleadingly, batting her eyelashes in a ridiculous but cute way. 

"Fine, you can sleep here." Hermione bit her lip to keep herself from smiling at Padma's look of sheer joy. "But if you touch me I will shove you into that closet and _lock_ you in there. Understood?" 

* * *   



	15. Chapter XV

Author's Note: There's a little thing wrong with my computer, unfortunately, which means it'll take me longer to write. I know, I know - that's real crappy. But more time to write = longer chapters! 

This week has been hectic - sorry, no time to reply to the reviews. I'll do it in chapter 18. 

Note to SophieB: The Terry, Blaise and Parvati part is as close as you're going to get to a threesome. 

* * * 

"Hermi, I need help." 

Hermione looked up at the troubled-looking Ron who stood in her doorway. "_Deja-vu_," she muttered, pushing aside the many rolls of parchment that cluttered her desk. "What did Seamus do this time?" 

"How did you know it was Seamus?" Ron sat on her bed, kicking off his shoes and making himself quite at home. 

She shrugged and glanced towards the closet, hoping that Padma would have enough sense to keep quiet. "Well, spill. What happened now?" 

"He just orders me around all the time, it's really stressful, and he won't even let me use magic. I tried to explain the difference between 'boyfriend' and 'butler' to him but all he said was 'Get me a butterbeer, Ronniekins, and step on it,'" Ron moaned woefully, his deep-blue eyes begging Hermione to find a solution to his problem - which she was in no mood to do, as she had quite a few of her own, and she had always placed herself first on her priority list. 

"I understand it was an agreement between you two, so he'd forgive you. I'm sorry, Ron, but a bargain's a bargain. Did you set a time limit?" 

Ron shook his head, then scratched it. 

"Well, that was smart," she muttered, masking the sudden giggles from the closet with a coughing fit. "Well, there's nothing _I _can do, sorry." 

Ron sighed and shrugged. 

"So will you please put your shoes back on - when was the last time you washed them, by the way? that stench would kill a pig - and let me get back to work." _Fat lot of work you were doing before, _her conscience interrupted._ Now here is a friend in need and you won't even - _she abruptly stopped thinking. 

Ron shoved his feet back into his runners, laced them up, then asked, "Hey, what smells in here?" 

"What do you mean?" replied the bewildered Hermione. _Dammit, I knew I should have put a litter box in that closet._

"Smells like perfume," Ron went on, and Hermione gave a huge sigh of relief. 

"Just my perfume, then," she said, picking up a small glass bottle and handing it to him to sniff, which he did. 

"No, s'not the same smell." 

"...oh." _I knew I shouldn't have let Padma wear her own perfume, dammit, _she cursed mentally. "Well, it's probably nothing, and you _should_ be on your way. Goodbye, Ron. Thanks for visiting." She fairly pushed him out the door, then shut and locked it as soon as he had left. 

Once Padma heard the click of the lock in its place, she hopped out of the closet like a jack-in-the-box set free. "Well!" she said with an amused smile. "Ron and Seamus aren't exactly smooth sailing, huh." 

"_We _aren't exactly smooth sailing," Hermione pointed out. 

"True," said Padma as she stretched her arms with a yawn. 

"I have to go to the library," Hermione said suddenly. "Let's go." 

"Hold on. Why do I have to come?" 

"Because I don't want to risk someone coming in and finding you." 

"There's a magic lock on the door." 

"Then you have to come because I don't want you to wreck my room during my absence." 

"I wouldn't do that!" 

"You're coming with me." 

Padma bit her lip. "But what if we run into ole Bootboy?" 

"He won't hurt you, I won't let him," said Hermione with mild exasperation. "Now come _on, _I don't have all day." 

"All right, but I hold you respnsible for broken limbs and bruised egos," said Padma with another sunny smile, causing Hermione's heart to melt and dribble down her ribcage. "What book are you looking for?" 

"'_The Incubus and the Succubus_'." 

"Sounds like perfect bedtime reading." Padma pulled a face. "What for?" 

"For fun." 

"Fun?" She snorted. 

"I don't understand how you could possibly be a Ravenclaw. You never read unless it's for schoolwork." Hermione raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

"For six years I was plotting how to win your heart, so I was too busy for books," explained Padma, smile widening, "and now I actually succeeded and I'm too busy with _you_ to read. It's all your fault." 

"Well, let's go," said Hermione, bodily pushing Padma out the door. She turned off the light and magically locked the door, and the pair made their way to the library (Padma jumped with fear each and every time another student's shadow crossed their path). The library was not very crowded, which pleased Hermione but worried Padma - the less people there were, the easier she'd be to spot... She shared this theory with Hermione, who scoffed, "Oh, come on, be serious and help me find that book." 

"Oh, all right," grumbled Padma. "But honestly, you're endagering my life. In this room there might be a guy who wants me dead, it's nuts..." 

"What's nuts is that you're so frightened of him that you insist on sleeping in my room." 

"Why, thank you, Granger. You've just told me where she's been hiding out all week," came a cold voice from behind them; they whirled around and saw Blaise, who was smirking at them in a hatred-filled way. 

"You can sell that information and buy yourself one of those new air-filled bras to make it look like you've got something there," suggested Padma - her slur was an allusion to the fact that Blaise, who hated her curves, had given up on duct-taping her breasts back in third year, and had started to wear extremely loose robes to hide her figure, making it look as though she really 'had nothing there'. 

"No, there's enough air in her head as it is, without her buying it," said Hermione, and the two girlfriends sniggered. 

"You'll be laughing when you wake up and find you're late for her funeral. Granger," said Blaise, who had turned a nasty shade of red. 

"At least someone would _come _to hers," snapped Hermione, "the only way someone would o willingly to yours would be if you sold tickets and booked a hot-dog vendor in advance." 

"Ooh, catty, Granger," Blaise told her, recovering her smirk, "you're learning to insult people after _getting_ insulted for seven years. But I suppose you chalk that up to experience." She paused to re-arrange her robe - Padma noticed that she had gotten new ones, tighter ones, for one could see the outline of her breasts - and added, "Try to be a little more catty next time." 

Padma snorted. "You're catty enough to set all the Hogsmeade dogs barking." 

"She can't possibly be _catty_," Hermione smirked in turn, "since she's such a bitch." 

"Funny. You call _me_ a bitch," said Blaise, "but I never went and flashed my tits at someone who was already in a very happy, healthy relationship, like your little friend there. Of course, when you're desperate..." 

"I never 'flashed my tits' at anyone," growled Padma, taking deep breaths to calm down. "But if I wanted to, at least I'd have _something _to flash!" 

"I _have_ got breasts, and I can prove it." 

"But you just said you never flash them," Hermione pointed out. 

"I see no point in continuing this conversation." 

"Meaning you're running out of insults, and can't think of anything to say," laughed Hermione in a mean way - and Blaise turned around and slapped her. 

In the fraction of a second Padma leaped out of her chair over and hurled herself at Blaise, hissing like a mad Crookshanks, knocking the Slytherin girl to the ground, and clawing at her in a fury. 

"If you _ever_ touch Hermione again, I'll rip your small intestine out with my bare hands!" she shrieked, quite besides herself. "You little tuppence whore!" 

"I'm a tuppence whore? _I'm_ a tuppence whore?!" Blaise hollered as she fought back like a wildcat - but a hundred pounds of Pissed-Off Slytherin is weaker than a hundred pounds of Homicidally Angry, Bent-On-Revenge Ravenclaw. 

Of course, all the screaming - not to mention the racked caused by a bookshelf falling over - attracted Madam Pince. 

"Children! What is all this ruckus - _oh!_" she exclaimed in dismay as she examined the strange landscap. 

A bookshelf knocked over, on its side. Books littered the floor, and the cover had fallen off of _Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle Issue 7_. Blaise on the floor on her back, lip bleeding where _Simple Spells for Second-Years_ had hit her in the mouth. Padma straddling her, fist raised, looking guilty but pleased with herself. Hermione gulped as Madam Pince turned slowly red and redder. 

_"What is the meaning of this?!" _she bellowed furiously, hands on her hips. "_Have you completely lost your senses? _You -" she glared at Padma - "and you-" she pointed to Blaise - "Dumbledore's office, _now!_ And a week's worth of detention for both of you! You will fix each and every one of these books - without magic!" And with that she turned around and stormed out of the room. 

"Right-o, then," said Padma to no one in particular, then turned to Hermione while Blaise glared at the other students who pointed at them and snickered. "Want to come with? I'd rather have you with me when I receive my death sentence." 

"Of course," said Hermione, still shocked at what had happened. 

* * * 

Parvati had just stepped out of the shower, and she was happy. She smiled at her reflection in the steam-covered mirror as she wrapped a towel around her waist. 

She hated hurried week-day morning showers, hated having to get in the shower when she still had small yellowish crusts between her eyelids, hated being too tired to enjoy the wonderful feeling of water bouncing off her skin, hated having only ten minutes to spend under the cascading water before Lavender started banging on the door. 

But on weekends, when everyone was either in Hogsmeade or roaming the school, nobody was there to complain if she spent ages carefully soaping each arm and leg. She soaked her skin for an hour beneath the jets of beautifully warm water, revelling in the luxury of taking her time. 

Next, while her skin was still moist, she magically shaved her limbs. She knew a useful little spell that got the job done faster, and without risk of nicks and cuts - but unfortunately it wasn't permanent, and had to be done weekly. She plucked her eyebrows carefully, eyes watering because of the pain, then rubbed at her elbows, knees and feet with a pumice stone to slough off tough skin. 

After all that was done, Parvati examed herself with almost clinical interest in the steamed mirror, nodding approvingly. She had the most beautiful body she had ever seen - and she kept a hawk-like lookout for beautiful girls. But no one equaled her. No one else had her long, sexy legs, small waist, and full bust. _I'm perfectly proportioned,_ she said to herself, tugging on a bathrobe. The beauty treatments were over; she could relax on her bed with a good magazine and chocolates - her idea of a Saturday well-spent, _although, toss a hot guy in there and you've got yourself a deal_, she grinned. 

As soon as she had settled down on the bed, the bathrobe barely covering her body, a knock came at the door. Certain it was Lavender or one of her other dorm-mates, Parvati called out, "Come in!" and stifled a small gasp of surprise when, instead of her giggly blond best friend, Blaise entered the room, Terry behind her. 

Blaise's mouth formed a small O of surprise, then she grimaced in disgust. "Patil, you slut, get some clothes on," she hissed between clenched teeth. 

Terry yelped and covered his eyes - but Parvati knew from experience that when boys covered their eyes, it meant they wanted a peek without getting caught. 

"Oh, bother," she said, searching for her wand (she knew a useful incantation that turned any garnment into any _other _garnment: thus dirty, ripped socks could transform into evening gowns). 

"You Gryffindors." Blaise shook her head and remembered the run-in with Hermione, earlier that day - and the long, stern lecture from Dumbledore after. "You're worse than rabbits." 

Parvati located her wand and, in a puff of purple smoke, turned her bathrobe into a skintight black robe. "Why, aren't Slytherins the ones reputed for having no morals?" 

"Can I look now?" asked Terry. 

"There's nothing to see," smirked Blaise. "Patil, how attached are you to your sister?" 

"Attached?" repeated Parvati. "Hell, we're not Siamese twins - not attached at all." 

"That's _not,_" said Blaise, "what I meant." 

"What she means," Terry offered in a would-be helpful way, "is, if she were to die or something, would you cry." 

"Hmm... no, I wouldn't cry. Why would I?" _And make my eyes all puffy, over Padma? Fat chance. _"But why do you want to know?" 

"See, we're planning to kill her, and we want to know if you'd mind." 

"Blaise!" gasped Terry, "she wasn't supposed to know that!" 

The Slytherin brunette ignored him and went on: "Well, would you? Mind, I mean." 

"Don't think so." It had never even crossed Parvati's mind that there was a possibility the two were serious. "Padma's a pain," she added jokingly. "Do away with her and I'll be unburdened." 

"Blaise," whispered Terry nervously, "she wasn't supposed to know that... that we want to k-kill..." 

"Well, Patil, now that we've practically got your consent to do it..." Blaise pulled out her wand. "_Obliviate!_" 

"How could you do that? Just erase her memory?" asked Terry, deeply shocked at the indifference with which Blaise cast serious memory-altering spells on innocent bystanders. He wondered if Blaise had ever cast a memory charm on him, and how many she had cast. 

"Well, what? You said it yourself, she wasn't supposed to know, and she'll remember everything up to the part where I say we want to kill Padma." Blaise glanced at the glazy-eyed Parvati. "And don't you sermonize me - you're going to be doing much worse than memory charms if we go through with this." She shoved her wand back into her pocket roughly. "Come on, let's go. We've got a lot of planning to do." 

* * * 

Draco was shopping in Hogsmeade, looking for a gift for Harry - it was their two-month anniversary. He couldn't find any greeting cards bearing the message "Wow! You've made it this far!" so was instead dilligently poring over the aisles in Hogsmeade's only sex shop, the "seXXX-rated Party Store". _What an utterly unoriginal name. But what do you expect? It was founded by non-Malfoys._

The over-friendly Veela salesgirl was helping out - _how many Veela salesgirls do they have in here anyway? Do they get them at half-price sales at Veelas Inc? _- by pointing out every naughty item in the store, and suggesting it. 

"Off course it depends on 'oo you arre buying forr," she said, her voice very French, "but we 'ave a verry larrge selection forr a wide rrange off costomerrs." She sounded as though she had learned her lines by heart from the catalogue, and seemed to be trying to help him by jiggling her chest continuously. 

"I understand completely," said Draco, "but you'll never get me in a leopard-print corset, no matter how high those boobies bounce. Incidentally - are they real?" 

"Zey arre rreal, and zey arre superrb," said the Veela salesgirl - and suddenly Draco recognized her. It was Fleur Delacour. 

"My God, what happened to you? You were such a big shot back when you were at Beauxbatons." 

"Ze people, zey like verry much zat I am Trriwizard champion, but zey do not much like zat I lost." Fleur shook her blonde hair, which was now cut short, shoulder-length. "And lap-dancing, it did not worrk out." She reached for an item on a higher rack. "'Ow about zese leatherr cuffs? Zey change colorr, depending on 'ow loudly you scrream." She grinned wickedly at him, dangling the handcuffs in his face. 

"Hmm," said Draco thoughtfully, inspecting the cuffs. "Not bad." 

"Made by purre-blod Veelas in Cuba," Fleur read off the label. "Tirrty-seex Galleeons." 

"Thirty-six? I think not." 

"Oh, please, monsieur Malfoy," Fleur pleaded, batting her thin eyelashes at him. "I am 'erre on trrial, zey said. I 'ave to make at least ten sales this week, orr I am firred." She pouted at him, and gave her bosom a discreet nudge. 

Draco smiled. The sight of her nearly begging pleased him, although he wasn't at all interested in what she was insinuatingly offering. A Veela nearly on her knees - _now there's a sight for sore eyes,_ he though approvingly as Fleur's breasts bounced as though made of pure rubber. "And how many sales have you made til now?" 

"Eight. Ze costomerrs, zey cannot rresist ze Veela boobies." 

"I suppose so." Draco fingered the handcuffs, knowing he'd buy them, and suddenly surprised at the realization that he didn't really want to leave yet. He liked Fleur. He liked her accent, her way of thinking, her looks, and the way she subtly poked at her chest when she thought he wasn't looking. "Fleur - what about dinner tonight?" he asked. 

"But... I thought you werre wit' somebody?" 

"Don't worry about that - Harry won't mind," he lied. 

"And, well, arren't you gay, monsieur Malfoy?" 

"Bisexual, actually," Draco admitted, gallantly leaning down and kissing her hand. 

Fleur giggled madly - she reminded Draco of Lavender Brown - then told him, "Monsieur Malfoy, my shift is over at midnight - I couldn't posseebly. Next Monday at seven?" She waited a second, then said, "Sevent'-yearrs at 'Ogwarrts can go to 'Ogsmeade wheneverr zey want, I know." 

"All right." Draco tossed the cuffs at her, grinning. "Gift-wrap these for me, won't you?" 

* * * 

"Love me?" asked Ginny, removing her head from Ludo's chest to look in his eyes. 

"Of course." He smiled at her, then added, as an afterthought, "Shouldn't you get your clothes on, though?" 

"Not yet." Ginny leaned her crimson-haired head on his shoulder, purring contentedly. "Not even six yet." She glanced at her right hand, spreading her fingers to better appreciate the sparkling new ring on her finger - only an aquamarine, Ludo had told her, merely a trinket, but she loved it. "Ludo, love?" 

"Hmm?" He patted her head, and pulled up the bedsheets to cover at least a part of her legs. 

"Why don't we elope?" 

"Elope?" he echoed, astounded. 

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, "You heard right. Seriously, though? Why don't we? There must be a little chapel in Hogsmeade somewhere... no one will ever know until I graduate and we can tell the world..." She raised an eyebrow. 

"Oh, dear," said Ludo, breaking into a fine sweat. 

Ginny held back a _tsk_ of disgust. She had thought him more daring, more impetuous - a spur-of-the-moment man. But obviously she had been wrong. "Give me one good reason not to," she challenged, wriggling out from under the sheets to tease him even more. 

"No one's going to let a minor get married." 

"That's not a good enough reason." Ginny watched him out of the corner of her eye. "If I do up my hair and put on enough eyeliner I can look twenty. And I can give a fake name - so can you." 

"Virginia - wouldn't that be... fraud?" 

"Who _cares_, as long as we're together?" She gripped his knee suddenly and he looked down at her hand, saw the aquamarine glittering in the sun pouring through the window. She gave him a pointed look. "I'm beginning to think you're afraid of me. Tell me I'm wrong." When he didn't answer she said, with more _bravure_ than she felt - she was truly in love with him - "Fine, then, I guess that sums it up. I have to time to waste with someone who doesn't care for me." 

She made a sudden move as though to get out of the bed, but he pulled her arm to stop her. "I'm not afraid of _you._ But Virginia, you must understand - if anyone were to find out... It would completely ruin my, my reputation. I'd face a decade in Azkaban - for bedding a minor - I can't risk that!" In his eagerness to say what he felt he had to, the words stumbled on his tongue and trampled on each other. 

"Your reputation! What about _me_?" 

"I care about you! But I _have_ to care about my_self_ too!" 

"_Fine! _I see how important I really was to you!" While he'd been speaking she had been putting her clothes on, and she was now fastening her cloak, glaring at him, furious with him. She was beautiful in her anger but didn't realize it - what she did realize was that she was wearing the blue silk cloak from him - from _him!_ In a rage she ripped it off, making a tear from the shoulder to the hip, and threw it to the floor. "I'm sending back everything you gave me! _Everything!_" She pulled the ring off and tossed it at him, viciously, hitting him in the eye. 

"Virginia - wait -" 

"I will not fucking wait!" The hat came off too - present from him - bareheaded, cloakless, she stormed out the door and into the chilly April evening, slamming the door behind her, bidding him adieu with a shriek of "Rot in _hell_, you fat bastard!" 

* * * 

"Seamus, this is slavery." 

"Do I look like I care? Get me those cookies." 

"Magic word?" 

"Do you want me to get out the whip again?" 

Ron shuddered convulsively and gagged. 

"Or the leash?" 

"Oh God, no! Not the leash!" 

"Well then shut up. I said chocolate chip, right? Oh, and get the house elves to heat them up a bit so that the chocolate is all melty and stuff." 

"Slave labour!" cried Ron insistently, sounding very much like fourth-year SPEW-obsessed Hermione. 

"Am I writing this? Am I? Don't bitch to me. Be a good little servant, won't you?" 

"Then who _is _writing this? What kind of sadistic freak would take pleasure from torturing me like this?" 

**"Me."**

"... eep." 

**"And I can do much worse than that little purple leash, Ronniekins. Don't mess with me, bitch." **The invisible but omnipresent author cracked her knuckles menacingly. 

"Ew, hold on, omnipresent?" Then, in a loud whisper to Seamus, "She prolly goes around watching, then, I bet she gets off on this - " 

Seamus chose to ignore him and instead asked, "What the hell are you doing in here anyway, RPH? D'you want to turn this into a fucking Mary Sue?" He snorted. "And make this fic even lamer than it currently is?" 

**"... that would be bad, huh?"**

"Forgive her," grinned Ron, "the author's a blonde." 

"Hey, I'm a blonde. Brat." 

"Haha." 

**"Insulting blondes! You asked for it!" **crowed the author, snapping her invisible fingers. Instantly, a thick, furry purple leash was securely tied around the redhead's freckled neck. **"You'll have a job taking that off. Seamus, I forbid you to remove it."**

"Don't worry, I feel no need to," Seamus assured her, grinning at the sight of Ron struggling to remove the leash he abhorred. 

**"You'll have to walk around school with that on, all week if I want it," **RPH added, **"that'll teach you..."**


	16. Chapter XVI

Bondagechic: Draco is lurking around in there somewhere… in a closet *winks* And although I`m aware that a lot of people would be happy with 30+ chapters, I wouldn`t. I don`t want to be responsible for a rambling fic.  
  
Sophie: Threesome? I don`t think so although I haven`t got the whole thing mapped out… And about the house-elf testicles – great minds think alike, no?  
  
CWF: 1. What`s wrong with quick writing? 2. Details?… only if I get a co- author. 3. It hurts, because in third grade I kneed a guy in the crotch and he burst into tears.  
  
Scythe-Wielder: Sorry! Sorry! I know my update speed has slowed down a bit… but I *do* have a life, you know…

Myrtle-Pyrtle: Yes, I know that I have more than three readers, but that`s my little joke *g*

* * * 

"So how's your life?" Harry asked Hermione unexpectedly over breakfast the following Monday. He looked happy but overworked, tired, bags roughly the size of Kansas City under his eyes. Hermione worried about him - but she had enough to worry about in her own life as it was. 

"Why do you ask?" 

"We never get to talk anymore," he said, which was true. Hermione guiltily realised that she had been so wrapped up in her complicated lovelife, so interested in the Terry/Blaise versus the Terry/Parvati sideline, so absorbed in "keeping Terry from murdering me" as Padma had put it, that she had been completely ignoring both her studies and her friends. 

"I'm fine. Studying hard, you know me." She shrugged. "How are things with Draco?" 

"Draco is... Draco is..." Harry seemed at a loss for words. "Well, you know, he's... um, all cool and hot and stuff - but once you get to know him, he causes you at least a migraine a week." 

"I know." She nodded wisely. "You must either have a lot of patience or a good sense of humour, to still be with him after getting to know him!" 

"Oh, he's not that bad. And he's really good in be-" 

"Too many details," she cautioned, and they both blushed. "So we're both fine and dandy." _An overstatement, perhaps, but can I really tell him the truth? Can I confess that I dumped Terry, whom Harry didn't even know I was dating, to be with Padma Patil, who's been in love with me since first year, and who's living in my room currently? Can I tell him that there's a strong chance that Terry and Draco's own cousin are plotting to murder Padma? N-O._

"Yeah." 

"Ron doesn't seem too happy, though," Hermione remarked. 

"Seamus has enslaved him," laughed Harry through a mouthful of bacon. "Did you hear, he threatened to go on a sex-strike? He'll never cease to amaze me, Seamus won't." 

"When you think that it's all because of Parvati..." She stole a glance at the stately girl, who was sitting straight in her chair, speaking to no one at the moment, but surveying the Gryffindor table as though she was a queen ruling over them all. In a way she did, and Hermione found herself wondering if Parvati ruled over _her_ too. _Well, she's the twin sister of the girl I'm secretly dating right now, so I guess she _does_ have some influence over me._

"Well, I suppose Parvati won't be alone for long." Harry chewed at his omelette thoughtfully. "She's never been this long without a boyfriend before. She'll find herself someone else, easy." 

Lowering her voice so that the subject of their conversation wouldn't hear, Hermione asked, "Wonder if she'll ever really find true love?" 

"Doubt it," answered Harry, "but she'll find a guy who she _thinks _is her true love, and she'll be happy with him." 

"Hmm," said Hermione, patting her mouth daintily with her napkin. "I don't really feel like discussing Parvati Patil's love life anymore, okay? Let's change the subject." 

"Okay," said Harry brightly. "Tonight, Draco and I, we're going to have dinner in that new French place in Hogsmeade. It's our two-month anniversary and I bought him a present, wanna see?" 

"Not really, no," Hermione told him. "Knowing how you and Draco are together, you probably got whatever it is in a sex-shop. Am I right?" Hermione had a very Blaise-ish attitude towards anything concerning Harry and Draco together. 

"Well, I wouldn't call it that," Harry muttered, suddenly very pink in the cheeks. dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, "It's a blindfold - but don't tell anybody." 

"Don't worry, I won't," Hermione choked on her eggs. "That's _much_ more than I wanted to know, thank you." 

* * * 

"D'you think she'll fall for it?" 

"Of course she will. I planned it, didn't I? Trust me." A _tsk_ of annoyance. 

"I do, but..." 

"But, she's the smartest witch in Hogwarts? Who cares? That doesn't matter. Let me explain..." 

"I'm listening..." 

"You can catch the biggest fish in the sea. All you need is the right bait." Said in mysterious ask-me-for-the-rest tone. 

"And we have the right bait?" 

"Of course we do." Smug and smirking. 

"No, we know who the right bait _is_. We don't _have_ the bait and we don't have _her_ either." 

"Now you're confusing me." A growl, sullen in the darkness of the broom closet. "Do we want to kill Padma, or catch Granger?" 

"Well..." Hesitantly. 

"Make up your mind or you're on your own. I'm losing my patience here." 

"We want to make them both suffer." 

"But will anyone die in the end?" 

"I suppose... maybe. Like, if she drowns or something." 

"But _she's_ not supposed to drown!" 

Impatiently: "Yes, she is. Haven't you been listening?" 

"Which _she _are we talking about?" 

".... hey, you're right." 

"_Patil _is supposed to die. Not Granger. Get your _she's_ straight, willya?" 

"Sorr-_ee_." 

"Dunno if this is even _worth_ it." 

"Did I _ask_ for your help?" 

"Yes, in fact, you did." 

"I don't recall -" 

"And you even said please." 

"Yeah right." Softly, but mutinously. 

"I'm going. Can't be late for Transfiguration." 

The door opened. The two stepped out in silence and headed towards their classes. 

* * * 

Quite troubled at the thought of Virginia being serious about what she had said - and the _way_ she had said it - Ludo, carrying a shopping bag which contained the blue silk cloak, mended, made his way towards the castle. He was wearing an Invisibility Cloak; he had the intention of skulking about the castle searching for a willowy, willing redhead. 

But after an hour he got tired of people walking past him without seeing him, used as he was to fame and people begging for autographs. Thus he took off the Cloak, and pulled out a cigarette - Virginia had forgotten her Wizzy-Lites on her last visit - and popped it in his mouth, to make it look as though he was propped up against the Castle wall because he was on a cigarette break. 

Blonde - blonde - brunette... No redheads in sight. Brunette - green hair - blonde, blonde... Oh, there! _Red!_ But no, it was a young man - her brother, without a doubt. _Damn,_ he cursed, frowning darkly, glaring at the grass. 

Blonde, brunette - and _what_ a brunette! Ludo reflected that not even Virginia had a figure like that. He had to bite his lip to keep from wolf-whistling - but the brunette noticed him, and gave him a seductive, assessing grin. He grinned back halfheartedly, and Parvati, not accepting half-heartedness where _she_ was concerned, walked up to him, and said, in her best manner, "Hello," followed by another grin. 

"Oh, hello," he answered, attracted and troubled by the fact that he was attracted - it felt like betrayal - and yet this girl seemed out of his league, somehow, which was ridiculous because _Ludo, you're famous, you can have any girl you want, this one included!_

"I don't believe I've ever seen you around," Parvati said, and Ludo, disturbed at a voice so husky - he didn't know that her voice was usually like that and that it could be _much, much_ huskier than that, dropped his cigarette in the grass. 

"Ooh, you dropped something." Parvati leaned to pick it up, incidentally-or-maybe-not displaying her cleavage. His breath caught in his throat, and he almost said something, but by that time she had picked the cigarette up, and was twirling it between her fingers. "Smoked many today?" she asked. 

"J-just the... the one," he stammered. 

"You might have smoker's breath," she informed him, holding out the cigarette. He reached for it, and nearly gasped when their hands touched. Parvati grinned and did not appear perturbed in the slightest. 

"I, uh, don't... don't t-think so." 

"There's one way to find out," she said mysteriously, raising an eyebrow at him as though she was asking, _up for it?_

"What's that?" he asked, and she kissed him - she even had to lean down a bit, she was so tall - and it felt like white-hot fireworks going off in his mouth and his mouth was still closed against her mouth and he was comparing it with kissing Virginia... but this was so different... 

She pulled apart with a quiet, throaty chuckle, and said, "Nothing wrong with your breath." 

"Maybe you should double-check," he suggested, slightly dizzy, and she swooped down on him again, her hair forming a curtain of midnight in front of his face. Seconds melted into each other in a flurry. Ludo was beginning to see stars and was gripping Parvati's arms to keep from falling, when an angry voice brought him back to earth: 

"What... what in the _hell_ are you doing?" 

It was Virginia Weasley herself, fists clenched, red hair blowing in the evening breeze. If she had been furious before, she was livid now; her eyes seemed to be burning with unbridled rage and hatred. And she had not even seen Parvati yet, only a girl with long hair kissing Ludo.. _her_ Ludo! But then Parvati turned around, and Ginny, recognising her, did a double take. Then: "_You! _I thought you were my _friend!_" 

"What?" asked Parvati; then, as she looked from Ludo to Ginny and back to Ludo, smiled wickedly and said, "Oh, have I been snogging your sugar daddy, then? Sorry." She stepped away, dusted herself off, gave Ludo one last glance, and began to walk towards the castle in a slightly regal way. 

Ginny then turned to Ludo. "Well? What's your excuse? You... you fucking lying traitorous betraying whoring _bastard!_" At this, several couples who had been making out in the rosebushes a few feet away stopped their heavy petting in stunned silence. 

"Virginia... I..." 

"You _what?_" Her voice was both quiet and screaming, desperate and defiant. 

"It would be pointless to say I'm sorry, wouldn't it?" 

"Quite." Then, after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, she told him icily, "I'm sending you all your stuff by owl tomorrow. And if you _ever_ speak to me after this, Ludo Bagman, I'm going to tell my brothers exactly what you did to me. I've got six brothers, and by the time the Ministry would starts looking for you there won't be anything to find bigger than a toenail." She turned around and began to walk away, but suddenly turned around and slapped him, very hard, across the face. 

* * * 

Padma was already in bed by the time Hermione had finished brushing her teeth. As Hermione got into bed, Padma gave her a very suggestive chock-full-of-innuendo grin, which was very much ignored by the Head Girl. Padma, who was quite desperate, sneaked her arm around Hermione's waist in an attempt to pull her closer. 

"Padma." 

"Hmm?" answered the Ravenclaw girl in innocent-little-girl tones. 

"Didn't I tell you that if you touched me I would lock you inside that closet - and only let you out for bathroom breaks?" 

"I thought you were joking," grumbled Padma - not removing her arm for all that. 

"Well, I wasn't. Unhand me." 

Padma obeyed, throwing Hermione adorable, pleading puppy-dog-eyes looks. "Can I at least _kiss_ you, then?" 

"If you want to," answered Hermione, the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch with amusement. _Good Lord, I'm beginning to act like Seamus to her Ron. Is that a bad thing?..._

Padma, smiling, leaned down and gave Hermione a kiss; it was so surprisingly tender and soft that Hermione nearly dropped her leather-bound copy of _So Now You're a Super-Witch_ in surprise, and kissed her back. In the back of her mind she vaguely remembered kissing Terry Boot... _who?_... who was Terry Boot?... 

As though she could read minds, Padma grinned and asked, "Did Bootboy ever kiss you like that?..." 

"He loved me. You worship me. There's a slight difference," said Hermione, already missing the other girl's warmth. 

"Slight? That's a small understatement, wouldn't you say?" 

Hermione did not reply, as her hand had just reached up and pulled Padma back down. For a few minutes all was silence, except for the noise of the two girls gasping for air. A voice in Hermione's head, the Voice of Reason, a voice which had been increasingly silent the past few days, suddenly shrieked, _Hermione Granger, have you lost your senses? You've only known her two weeks! You knew Terry for three months before you let him touch you!_

But then another voice, the Voice of Heated Snogs perhaps, reared her pretty head and retorted, _Hermione, do you really give a flaming fuck about the timeline? DO YOU?_

The answer to that was, of course, negative. They rolled and rolled on the bed, almost falling off once, kisses becoming more and more passionate and saliva-laden, when suddenly Harry walked in, catching them in a _very _compromising position. 

"...." said Harry, eyes widening behind his glasses, mouth slack with surprise. 

Hermione turned various shades of red and Padma, on top of her, grinned, eyes sparkling with merriment. 

"Hi, Harry," she said. 

".... hi...." he managed, as goggly-eyed as a goldfish in a bowl. 

"This is... not what you think it is," Hermione muttered, trying to wriggle out of Padma's grasp. 

"That's right, it's _more_ than you think it is," Padma grinned wickedly. 

"I don't believe we've met?" Harry stammered, instinctively sticking out his hand for her to shake, polite boy that he was. 

"Oh, we have," said Padma, hopping off of Hermione and in front of Harry like a mad kangaroo, "I went to the Yule Ball with Ron, remember? Fourth year? I was alone and he was desperate?" 

"Oh, yeah," said Harry, nodding absently; he looked over at Hermione and raised his eyebrows significantly at her. 

She blushed even more, looking like a tomato with a frizzy wig; she too jumped off the bed and walked up to him, biting her lip like a child caught red-handed filching from the cookie jar. "I'll talk to you later," she mouthed, nodding her head towards the door. Harry, catching on, said, "Right then, I'll see you later, 'Mione," and stepped out the door, closing it behind him. 

Furious with herself and with the oddly happy Ravenclaw ex-Prefect in the room with her, Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and turned her back to Padma, seething with anger. "See?" she demanded. "What if I had - had agreed to... and I had my pyjamas off or something... and he walked in and saw... Goddammit, Padma, stop giggling! This isn't funny!" 

A bit alarmed at her tone, Padma stopped mid-giggle and said, "Well, okay, I admit you're right... but don't make such a big deal out of it, angel." (That was her nickname for Hermione.) "If anyone has a right to be mad here it's me." 

"Why, pray tell?" asked Hermione, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

"You didn't even think to lock the door," laughed Padma. 

"You think this is all a big joke, don't you, you immature little..." 

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," warned Padma, no longer laughing, but frowning, hands on her hips. "Don't you dare!" 

Hermione glared at her and headed towards the bathroom, but Padma followed her, now pissed off, and said, "You're being very touchy about this for no reason. If Harry had caught you making out with Terry Boot, you would have calmly introduced him instead of nearly having a heart attack." 

"That's... different," Hermione found herself saying, not knowing that it was a mistake. 

"Oh really? How?" questioned Padma, narrowing her eyes. "Oh, I know - I was only a prefect, and I'm a girl. You only think so much of your precious Terry because he's Head Boy! If he weren't you wouldn't have looked twice at him!" 

"That's not true!"  
  
"Yes, it is, and you know it! Don't even try to deny it! If he weren't Head Boy you probably wouldn't ever have _met_ him in the first place! You think he's going to amount for so much because old Dumbledore gave him a fucking shiny badge. Well, guess what? I checked old records - Voldemort himself was a Head Boy!" 

"That's different!" repeated Hermione, very surprised before this angry Padma - the girl had such a happy-go-lucky attitude that she appeared to be possessed in this moment. 

"It's not different. It's the same, same thing, but you can keep telling yourself it's different if it makes you feel better." Padma sniffled viciously and glared at Hermione. "You know, you might think that because I love you and because I'd throw myself in front of the Hogwarts Express if it would make you happy, you can treat me like this - think again! Frankly, I deserve better. And so do you," she added, her voice now fake and sickly-sweet. "You deserve better. You deserve best. Bootboy is the best. You can go back to him..." She turned towards the door resolutely. 

"Padma, wait," pleaded Hermione. 

"Wait, for what? For you to make up your fucking mind? I don't think so - I almost had my wisdom teeth knocked out by Blaise Zabini because of you, and I didn't even got a thank-you." She stepped outside. 

"But - you can't leave - they'll see you," protested Hermione, making a large hand gesture to show that by "they" she meant the Gryffindors in the common room. 

"So what? So fucking what?" demanded Padma - Hermione had never heard her swear so much in one breath. "They'll just think I'm fucking Parvati with a fucking haircut!" She slammed the door in Hermione's face. The Head Girl stared at the door for a couple of seconds, then, trembling from head to foot with remorse, guilt and even fear - Homicidally Angry Ravenclaw... - then she promptly burst into tears, and crumpled to the floor like a forgotten, discarded marionette. Curled up in the foetal position, she sobbed herself to sleep, and spent the night on the rug.   
  
  



	17. Chapter XVII

  
Dear everybody: A million apologies all around. I know that it's taken me an immense amount of time to upload this chapter - besides the fact that I didn't have much time to write lately, the floppy disk on which I'd saved all my slash had broken (those were dark times). Since I'm eager to get c&b19 on ff.net, I won't be replying to your reviews - sorry! - but it would just take me more time if I did. 

So here it is, albeit four or five weeks late. Enjoy. (That's an order.) 

* * * 

Draco, carrying a huge bouquet of rare and fragrant orchids, was waiting for Fleur in front of the Hogsmeade restaurant they had agreed to meet at. He was right on time, and he hoped that she would be too. He was a Malfoy and would not be kept waiting. As minutes passed by he looked at his watch more and more often, and noticed a shifty-looking man walking, or trying to walk, across the street (it was actually a very drunk Ludo Bagman). 

Fortunately, after a quarter hour Fleur apparated beside him. "Oh, you arre alrready 'erre - I 'ope I didn't keep you waiting?" 

"Not too much," Draco assured her, and she took the flowers with a wide smile. "You look lovely," he added, and it was true. Fleur wore a sparkling pale-blue evening gown; her hair was down and smelled of peaches. She had no make-up on that he could see. 

"T'ank you," she said with another smile. Arm in arm, they walked into the restaurant. 

They were seated immediately, Draco's last name having prompted the waiter to clear a table quickly, and as he sat down in the very comfortable chairs, Fleur across the table from him, Draco never once thought of Harry Potter, who was waiting for him in another restaurant not unlike this one. 

"Busy day?" he asked. 

"Oh... not rreally," she said, wrinkling her nose in a way that seemed to Draco very charming. "On Frridays and ze weekends we make ze most sales. On Mondays everryone 'as to go to worrk - zey 'ave no time to play." She curled her fingers around the thin stem of her goblet of wine. 

"And if I hadn't asked you out, what would you be doing right now?" 

"Taking a bath," she said firmly, and Draco struggled not to think, _Veela in a tub, Veela in a tub_. "And then I would go to a club wit' my frriends. I 'ave many of zem - frriends, I mean. Many morre zan in France." 

"I know I've asked you this before," Draco went on, suddenly very curious about her personal life, "but why did you leave France?" It wasn't clear at all to him why somebody who had grown up in the marble halls of Antoine Delacour's manor would suddenly pack and move to a tiny wizarding village, to live in what was likely a small appartment with one bedroom. 

"My fazzerr," said Fleur, looking engrossed by the menu, "was not verry 'appy when I was beaten at ze Tourrnament by a leetle boy like 'Arry Potter. It did not change his mind that the Tourrnament had been a scheme of You-Know-'Oo." 

This made sense to Draco. His father had done business with Fleur's in the past, and he has reported that Antoine Delacour was a ruthless man, quick to cast anything and anyone out of his life that wasn't immediately successful. "Ohh," he said, in the way of one who has been suddenly enlightened. "Do you like it here?" 

She nodded, and after the waiter had taken their orders and left, she explained: "My life is so differrent 'erre. I 'ave no one to 'elp me, zat is trrue, but I make my own decisions. It's all ze way _I _want it." She smiled again, and Draco noticed how different she was from the Fleur Delacour who had been Beauxbatons champion. That Fleur had been obviously spoiled, and complained endlessly, but now she had changed. She knew, unlike Draco, what it meant to have to struggle to pay the rent. She was the underdog, and she fascinated him. 

"Ohh," he said again. 

"And I 'ave 'obbies," she added a tad proudly. 

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what hobbies, but a small voice in his head said, _Draco, she's a Veela and she works in a sex-shop. What could her hobbies possibly be?_ and that thought made him turn red in the face. 

Noticing his blush, and understanding why he had blushed, Fleur grinned and sipped her wine. "I rraise owls," she said. 

"Ohh, you raise - _what?_" 

"What, you t'ought I am a dominatrrix in my sparre time?" She laughed - it sounded like far-off chiming bells - and flicked her hair in a pretty way. "You perrverrt." 

"You... raise owls?" 

"Ze tiny leetle Scops owls zat are so cute and tiny," she told him. "I bought one forr myself in ze beginning, but I 'ad to get it from Diagon Alley because zey do not sell them 'erre in 'Ogsmeade. So I said to myself, Fleur, why not buy two, and mate zem, and sell ze owl babies? Because, you see," she added as she drained the glass, "by ze time ze Scops owls get 'erre from London, some arre seeck, and once in a while, some arre dying or alrready dead." 

"Ohh," Draco repeated. "Well, that was smart of you." 

She smiled at the compliment but said: "Enough about me. Tell me about yourrself." At that moment their food arrived, spaghetti for Draco and chicken drumsticks for Fleur. 

"For one thing, I'm a vegetarian," he said, looking with disgust at her plate. "A chicken died for that, you know." 

"A chicken also died for ze feazzers in ze pillow zat you sleep on," Fleur told him. 

"That's not the same thing - you can live without _eating_ chicken -" Draco said, feeling an angry vegetarian rant coming on. 

"But you can't live wizout pillows? You should trry it. It won't kill you, surrely." She raised an eyebrow at him archly. "And a cow also died for ze leazzer jacket you arre wearring now. _Tu es un peux hypocrite, n'est-ce-pas?_" 

"It's not the same thing," he said again, all the more stubbornly because he felt she had a point.. 

"And you almost bought fur-lined cuffs the ozzer day," she pointed out. "You should t'ink beforre you speak it, to avoid making a fool out of yourrself." She drained another gobletful of wine, and Draco felt horribly embarrassed and hoped she still liked him. 

"So..." he said stupidly. "How are you?" 

"Borred, to tell you ze trut'." Fleur stretched her legs and under the table, her foot touched Draco's knee. "I dislike fancy rrestaurrants like zis one." 

"Well, we could go somewhere else," he told her hopefully, hoping he didn't sound too suggestive. 

"Mm-hmm," she said approvingly, "we could go back to my leetle apparrtment." 

"Ooh, I'd like that," Draco blurted without thinking, and Fleur granted him a smile. 

"'Ow would you like a nightcap wiz a strranger?" she asked him. 

"Ooh, I'd like that too," said Draco. 

* * * 

During that time Harry was waiting at a table in _The Gourmet Wizard's Stop in Hogsmeade_, a very chic and overpriced restaurant. He wondered where the hell Draco was, the blonde being over half an hour late. Harry nervously fingered the menu and tried to pretend that he was reading the menu (_Enchanted Entrees_). 

* * * 

Hermione, after having spent half the day talking to herself during class, and thus not hearing any word fallen from the specific Professors' mouths, had decided to take a walk outside during lunch. It was a very warm and humid May day, filled with sunshine and chirping birds. After walking around the lake twice, she ran straight into Terry Boot himself. 

"Well, speak of the devil," she said, because while she had been walking, she had been muttering to herself about the mess Terry and Padma had made of her love life. 

Meanwhile Terry's face turned roughly the colour of ash. He did not speak, and Hermione attempted to walk past him; but his arm shot out and grabbed her before she could leave. "Hermione," he said hoarsely, "hang on a second..." 

"I'm late for class," she said, a lie so transparent - it was lunchtime - that she made to attempt to cover it up. 

"Can we talk?" 

"What have we to talk about?" She looked down, rubbing the spot on her arm where his fingers had left red-and-white marks; a frizzy lock of hair fell across her face, she had a smidgen of dirt on her nose, and on the whole she looked so adorable that Terry wanted to hold her tightly until the air was squeezed out of her. _But obviously that would be the 'wrong' thing to do._

"Well, us..." he murmured shamefacedly, hoping she wouldn't say 'there is no us'. "Is it - is it really over?" 

"It's been over for two weeks," Hermione said impatiently, looking up. 

Their eyes met. "Has it?" asked Terry, who was in dreamland, and saw loving looks in every annoyed gaze she sent his way. 

"Good lord, Terry..." She grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him an impatient shake. "Snap out of it, would you? I know you think you love me -" 

"I _know_ I love you -" 

"- but stop mooning after me! Look, you'll find someone else that you'll fall in love with and you'll marry that girl and she'll have your children and you'll live happily ever after. I'm getting on with my life. Get on with yours." She looked at him with slight disgust. "Your behaviour is frankly ridiculous. A ruptured relationship - what is _that_ in the scheme of things?" 

"I know what the scheme of things would be if there _weren't_ a ruptured relationship!" he shot back. 

"That makes no sense." Hermione narowed her eyes at him and slowly started walking away. After she had taken about five steps, Terry's voice rang out behind her: 

"She doesn't love you, you know." 

"I haven't the slightest idea who you're talking about," she replied frostily, although she did know, and her heart froze for a millisecond at the mention of Padma. 

"She thinks she does - but it's superficial..." 

Which was not what Hermione had wanted to hear - but she wanted to hear nothing from him. He rubbed salt into her wounds mercilessly. "Terry, this conversation is officially over," she told him. 

"But - look, I'm only telling you this so you don't break your heart over her - like you broke mine -" 

"_Shut up!_" She whirled around and shook her fist at him, looking very silly but fierce, wondering if she _would_ attack him if he kept talking. Then she realized she didn't want to find out. She started walking very briskly towards the castle. 

"Hermione? Herm, wait -_ wait, _goddamn it -" 

She didn't reply. She was running, anger nearly blinding her, to the castle. 

* * * 

Padma was alone in her dormitory, her Ravenclaw room-mates being in the common room. She had dutifully done her all her homework to keep her mind off of Hermione; she had even done a three-rolls-of-parchment essay that Professor Flitwick had given them – it was due two weeks from now. 

Then she had begun an article for Witch Weekly - she had found out they paid five Galleons for each article from an outside contributor, and had decided to try her hand at it. She had had four of them published already that year, and felt a surge of pride each time she glanced inside a glossy magazine and saw an article signed "Padma Patil, Hogwarts correspondent". She had made up her mind to be a journalist. 

After the last word on the article was written, she had curled up in her bed with a prose version of the Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, which she had outgrown years ago, but she had no other books with her and she feared that if she were to venture to the library, she would certainly run into Hermione. 

Hermione had to be avoided. 

It took every ounce of Padma's concentration not to think of Hermione – which she usually did during her spare time. Her eyes glazed over with determination; every now and then she slipped and the name 'Hermione' entered her thoughts; when that happened she felt guilt and anger and something else. Her stomach churned as though she was at the top of a roller-coaster and she knew what was coming right after. 

_How could someone be so heartless as to destroy something so perfect?_ she wondered, remembering despite herself how her head had fit just right in the crook of Hermione's shoulder, and how her brown hair had a caramel shine when directly in a source of light. _How can she deprive me of what I want, when what I want is her? And now it's worse than before I was with her… because now I've spent, what? two weeks with her, and I know what she's like…_

Right on cue, stopping her from shrieking out loud with frustration, tearing her away from her wistful Hermione-filled daydreams, a knock came at the door. "Come in," she called half-hoping it was Hermione, half-hoping it wasn't. 

It wasn't. 

Parvati stepped in, saw that her sister was alone, and smiled. . "Up to your neck in homework as usual? Or do you have five minutes?" 

"I have ten minutes, even, if you want them. What's going on?" 

"Nothing's going on," replied Parvati. 

Padma raised an eyebrow in suspicion. 

"Can't a girl just pop up for a chat with her twin?" 

"Forgive me, but when the girl is you, it's slightly suspicious to just 'pop up for a chat'." Padma's lips curled into half a smile; it was the only demonstration of affection that she had displayed for three days. Parvati chucked and sat down on her sister's bed, shaking her head so that her hair whirled around in a black frenzy. Padma, who loved long hair - just not on herself - buried her hands in it, and said hopefully, "Still haven't cut your hair, have you? Can I braid it?" 

"Sure." To make it easier for her sister, Parvati laid down on her back, her head supported by Padma's knees. Padma smiled again, selected glossy locks of hair, and began twisting them together with dexterity. 

"So what is it you want to tell me?" 

"I came to tell you that the Gryffindors are having a party tonight," Parvati announced grandly, "to celebrate our beating Hufflepuff at Quidditch this morning." 

"The match was this morning?" Padma replied absently. She had been too busy trying to keep a certain Head Girl out of her thoughts - _guess that's why she's Head Girl, she stays in your head - _to go. But she had known the outcome of the match beforehand, as had everyone else in the castle. 

"You weren't there, were you." It was not a question, it was a statement. 

"Busy," Padma said shortly, securing the braid with a minute elastic at the same moment that bucketfuls of ice-cold rain began to pour down on Hogwarts. . 

"Well, are you going to come? To the party, I mean." Parvati winced as her sister accidentally pulled too hard at her raven-black hair. "Ouch!" 

"Sorry... no, Parv, I'm absolutely _swamped_ with work." Padma glanced at her desk, on which she had neatly piled up all the homework she had due for the next due weeks, and felt guilty about lying to her sister. 

"I see." Parvati smiled knowingly. 

"I've got an essay due tomorrow for Binns..." A transparent lie. Parvati saw right through it. 

"Trying to avoid someone?" 

"Don't be stupid. Who could I _possibly_ be trying to avoid?" Padma pulled mercilessly at her sister's hair, angry with Parvati for making her think of the very person whom she had banished from her thoughts a mere few days ago. 

"Hermione." 

Padma's fingers, buried deep inside the black jungle that was Parvati's hair at the moment, started to tremble. She stopped them just in time. She hissed through clenched teeth, "Shut up." 

"What a pity you two broke up." 

"Parvati, you don't know what you're talking about." 

And you were so cute together." 

"I'm warning you," said Padma very coldly and serioudly, "to shut your mouth, or you will be slapped as you have never been slapped in your life." 

"Ooh, violence now? You must take after Daddy." 

"Don't you bring Daddy into this!" The stormy-spring-night sky outside the window was hardly darker that Padma's eyes at that moment. Parvati, seeing this, remembered how touchy her sister had always been about her love life, and deemed it advisable to cease her seemingly good-natured taunts. _I've done enough damage in one evening anyway,_ she reflected as she got up and rubbed the sore spots on her head where Padma had pulled her hair. 

"All right, all right," she said coolly with a shrug. "You don't have to come. Calm down." She undid the three little braids in her hair and tossed the elastics onto the bed, then opened the door and said, "Bye." 

Padma did not answer. As soon as her sister had gone she glanced at the clock: nine-thirty. Hugging her knees to her chest, she said out loud, "I'm going to bed. I'm going to have an early night. I'm going to... shit, I'm going to cry." Tears slid eagerly down her cheeks, tears that she had spent all her energy trying to fight back, during her half-hour-long conversation with Parvati. She had no strength left now. Curled up in the foetal position on her bed, eyes pitifully wet, she sobbed steadily and quietly for the better part of an hour. Her pillow was soaked halfway through by her salty tears. 

At last she felt tired of feeling blue and sorry for herself. Standing up suddenly, she wiped her eyes resolutely; then she turned to look in her mirror, making a face at the red eyes and tear-blotched skin that she saw in the glass. "I never want to look like this again," she muttered darkly to herself. She grabbed her wand from her nightstand and whispered the incantation that restored her appearance to something resembling normalcy. 

At that moment she heard, distinctly, a tapping noise at her window. The rain bouncing off the roof made the sound faint, but it was unmistakeable. _Oh, jeez,_ Padma thought suddenly, _what a cliche! Here I am, alone in a big room, it's a dark and stormy night, and there's someone outside my window. Does this come out of a cheap Muggle horror movie or what?_ Tap, tap - taptaptapTAP! Too loud and insistent to be a branch hitting the window. 

"I've got to open that window and see who it is," Padma told herself quietly. "I can't leave whoever-it-is out there, and wait for him-her to somehow sneak in here and kill us all while we're asleep. It could be Sirius Black for all I know. Anyway, I've got my wand with me." She gripped the thin strip of wood in her hand. "Alohomora!" 

The window creaked open and in stepped Hermione Granger, looking as though she had decided to go for a swim in the Lake. Her robes - all her clothes, actually - were soaked completely through and clung wetly to her skin. Her skin was literally dripping with water. She looked distinctly miserable, as might anyone who had spent roughly half an hour trapped outside during a violent rainstorm. 

Before Padma, who was too amazed to speak, could get a word in, Hermione took a weak but determined step forward, her wet robes slapping against her legs. "I'm _sorry,_ okay?" she cried - her cry could have been considered a shriek if anyone could have supposed sensible, quiet Head Girl Hermione capable of anything as loud and emotional as a shriek. "I agree that I acted wrongly and I shouldn't have hidden everything the way I did and I shouldn't have done that! But I'm SORRY! Really sorry, for fuck's sake!" 

During this 'speech' Padma had mentally groped for words, any phrase that she might have kept for such situations. She came up with nothing, and, having nothing remotely intelligent to say, she said nothing. 

Hermione, confronted by this silence, thought that Padma was still mad at her. She closed her eyes in sign of defeat. She was too tired even to repeat an "I'm sorry". It had been a long and trying day for her, a day that had included being caught in a storm and thinking, for a wild half-hour, that every passing lightning-bolt would hit and kill her. It was more than she could take, Head Girl though she was, and her knees gave way. She fell in a wet heap on the floor. 

Then Padma finally reacted. With a high-pitched yelp of alarm, she literally rushed to Hermione's side. "Are you all right?" 

"Well, I'm not dead," Hermione muttered. She was in worse shape than she thought she was, and in worse shape than she looked. She had also had to swallow a large amount of pride in order to apologize. Having her apology rejected made what remained of her anger flare up. "I'm _fine_." To prove her words she tried to pull herself to her feet, but no sooner had she moved her head an inch that she felt woozy. 

"No, you're not," Padma answered softly, running her hand through Hermione's rain-drenched hair. Thin streaks of water were coursing down from Hermione's eyes and Padma had a feeling they weren't raindrops that had clung to her eyelashes. "I've got to get you to the hospital." 

"Nooo," protested Hermione weakly, leaning her hand again Padma's shoulder without thinking. "I'd rather... stay here..." 

"I know you'd rather." Padma couldn't help smiling. "But it would be better in the long run for you to see Madam Pomfrey." 

"Yeah, well, the long run's a long way from now," replied Hermione, who was in that drowsy state where one says anything, regardless of whether one's words make sense or not. She felt that, wordlessly, things had righted themselves, and this made her smile. 

"Come on." 

"But I hate the infirmary," Hermione said in a last attempt to convince Padma that it was in both of their best interests that she stay right where she was. "It's all... clean... and it smells like Mr. Clean." 

Padma had no idea who Mr. Clean was. "I'll stay with you," she promised. 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

"All night?" 

"Yes." 

".... all right, then." 

Outside, the storm abruptly stopped. The moon peeked out from behind a mass of cloud, and all was still and peaceful. Crickets began tos ing loudly despite the fact that it was perhaps not the season for crickets. It was the calm after the storm.   
  



	18. Chapter XVIII

Author's note: Chapter 20! When I first started this fic, I thought I'd stop it here. 

Ohh, I can picture the looks of intense fear on your faces... 

Don't worry, I'm smart enough to realize that I couldn't stop this fic here. I have at least five more chapters to go - and I'm also smart enough to realize that if I want to end this in five chapters, they will have to be extra-long chapters. So rejoice, dear readers, (if there are any readers. Are there?) this fic is far from over. 

* * * 

Ginny had just exited Hogsmeade's most popular salon, after having spent a fair few hours - and a fair few Galleons - having her   
hair cut, shampooed and restyled. It cost me a fortune, but it was worth it, she thought, contemplating her reflection with relish.   
She was mesmerised by how different she looked with her hair golden yellow in colour, and very short, the longest tendrils of it one   
inch away from her shoulders. She also had large golden fringes falling into her eyes. 

She had decided to dye and cut her hair on the spur of the moment, when the iron of having seen Ludo kissing Parvati was still   
freshly in her soul, on the somehow logical thought that, if Ludo were to walk through Hogsmeade at the same time as her, she'd be much harder to spot or to recognise, if they bumped into each other. 

She had no mixed feelings about it, her 'new' hair. It was a pleasant change, suited perfectly with her blue eyes; and she was tired   
of people immediately knowing she was a Weasley, simply because of her hair colour. Her flaming red hair had ensured that she   
stood out in the Hogwarts crowd, but she was convinced that she would stand out anyway. Virginia C. Weasley liked to stand out,   
wanted to stand out, needed to stand out.. (She had no middle name, but had added an initial when she was eight, because it made   
her feel important.) 

"Bee-yew-ti-ful," she said out loud, snapping her compact mirror shut and stowing it away in her new handbag. She felt wonderfully sexy, as would one who had ripped off thick, dead skin and coming out of it bigger, more beautiful, more whole, like the stunning   
metamorphosis of a butterfly. This was a change for the better, she could feel it. For one thing, she wasn't wearing her horribly   
bulky school robes. Ginny hated any clothing that did not hug her body. She had on black suede pants, a tan sleeveless top, also   
suede, and fishnet gloves. (Ginny adored fishnet.) 

Her eyes looked inquisitively about the room, over the rim of her margarita. (Her looks had convinced the bartender that she was   
over legal drinking age, which had only made her feel better about herself.) Her built-in radar sensed that there was someone   
famous in the room - yes, that would explain the noise coming from that corner. Leaving her glass on the counter, she slid sleekly   
off the stool and made her way in that direction. 

Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted and let her through. There was a half-circle of occupied armchairs in the middle of the mass of people, and the cause of the hubbub was in the biggest armchair of them all. Viktor Krum. But a Krum very different from the one   
she had last seen three years ago at the World Cup. His eyebrows and nose had been magically fixed, and he was no longer surly.   
He was laughing at someone's joke. He was handsome when smiling, Ginny noted, and she smiled as well, slowly, prettily. The   
someone who had joked with Viktor Krum was Ludo Bagman, but she didn't even see him. 

At that moment Viktor Krum looked up and spotted her. 

"Do you vant to sit down?" he asked. 

Over the laughter and the music and the shouting, Ginny didn't hear a word of what he'd said, but she knew he had spoken to her,   
and her smile widened. She leaned towards him. "How do you like Hogsmeade?" 

Ludo, who was sitting to Viktor's left, recognised her and was so amazed that he spilled his beer all over himself and never noticed. She was superb, and he had half a mind to get up and kiss her, but then he remembered that she hadn't spoken to him in over a   
week, had sent him four Howlers worthy of parental advisories, and would probably never forgive him. 

Viktor for one was in a tough spot. There was no place for Ginny to sit, and he didn't want to get up himself, but neither did he   
want this stunning young woman to get lost in the crowd. He stood up and held his hand out to her. "Vant to go for a valk?" he   
nearly shouted at her. "This place is so loud I can hardly hear myself think." 

She grinned and nodded. They walked hand in hand out of the bar. Ginny magicked her handbag into her dormitory after   
re-applying her WitchyLips Gloss, not wanting to have to carry anything. She was suddenly very dry-throated. She had a pack of   
WizzyLites in her pocket, and wanted to smoke one right away, but she could not risk getting smoker's breath when there was even the slightest chance of Viktor Krum kissing her. 

"To answer your question, I love Hogsmeade." 

"Kind of small." 

"Yes," he said with a smile, "bot I have no crazy fangirls chasing me here." He gave a chuckle and looked at her sideways. 

Ginny laughed with him. Her eyes widened as did her smile; it was her more of less accurate impersonation of a 'crazy fangirl'.   
Tongue dangling out of her mouth, she asked, "Oh, Mr. Krum, can I have an autograph? Oh, Mr. Krum - do you have a girlfriend?" It was a joke, of course, but if he chose to answer, she would know whether she really was seeing someone or not, and then she'd   
know if he was worth bothering with or not. 

"No," he replied, seemingly very serious. 

Ginny's heart nearly stopped in surprise. She mentally assessed the situation - and the possibilities. It was a late spring-summer   
evening, and she was walking with an unattached and very handsome Viktor Krum towards a remote part of town! Did he not   
know his way around Hogsmeade very well, or was he self-confident enough to try something? She chose to believe the second   
option and smiled in sultry anticipation. 

She became even more sure of it when he asked, "And how about you, miss..." 

"Virginia," she put in. 

"Are you seeing somebody, Virginia?" 

She laughed and tried to make it sound light. "Are you offering, Mr. Krum?" She playfully poked him in the chest with a finger and   
he caught her hand, gently. She answered, then. "No, I'm not." 

She heard him go, "Ohhhhhhhh". She couldn't see his face in the darkness. But she could feel him; his hand had crept to her   
back and his breath was warm on her neck. His lips pressed to hers, gently at first, then with more pressure; his tongue, a soft pink   
snake, darted between her teeth. Ginny grinned wildly and bit back a chuckle as she pulled him closer. In retrospect, this was and   
had been a great day. 

* * * 

_I noticed a letter that sat on your desk_   
_It said, "Hello, love. I love you so, love. Meet me at midnight."_   
_And no it wasn't my writing_   
_I better go soon_   
_It wasn't my writing_   
Alanis Morissette (yes, again), Your House   


It was Friday evening, a very warm Friday evening. Harry, who was supposed to be at the Quidditch Pitch, training, had in fact just entered Draco's room. He was angry and he felt that his anger was justified. He had been stood up on Monday - which had been,   
in fact, some anniversary or other - two months, or something like that, that they had been together. He had waited for him, for   
over two hours, in that restaurant, hopefully naive, thinking that surely Draco had a serious reason for being late. Perhaps Blaise   
had died in a duelling accident, perhaps Pansy had stupidly blocked the doorway to prevent him from going out the door. So he had   
thought at the time, but then Draco hadn't shown up at all. 

All that had happened four days ago, not counting Monday itself. And since then Draco had not spoken to him, had not even sent a   
note, by owl, to explain why he hadn't shown up for the date he had set himself. Harry Potter was no fool, although some people   
thought otherwise. He smelt a rat. So there he was, in his beloved's dormitory, rummaging through his desk drawers, looking for   
some sort of clue that might be able to tell him what Draco had been doing on Monday evening. He doubted he would find   
anything; Draco was not the sort who would leave such important clues lying around for his jealous boyfriend to see. But he looked   
anyway. 

Thank God Draco's a neat person, Harry thought. It made his rummaging much easier, to find everything sorted in neat little   
piles. Even Draco's books were organised, in the mahogany bookcase, by subject, and inside the subject category there was a   
subdivision, based on colour, and inside that subdivision of colour was another subdivision: alphabetical order according to author. 

Hel-lo - what's this? A sheet of pale pinkish-lavender stationary that had a faint smell of peaches. Draco's stationary was black -   
he wrote with silver ink - and smelt of mint and dried grass and expensive perfume. 

Harry grabbed the sheet. The message was written in a large, round hand, in blue ink. He had never seen such handwriting before.   
He gulped almost instinctively. His hands, holding the sheet, were moist; he set the stationary on Draco's desk, not wanting to stain   
or wrinkle the paper. He began to read: Dear Drago - and then he stopped. Drago, he knew, was the French version of Draco.   
Maybe, then, this was only an innocent letter from a pen pal. He felt ashamed of his suspicions, and opened the drawer again,   
planning to put the sheet back in; but then he saw the next sentence: Thank you for a wonderful evening. 

"Fuck," he hissed, slamming his fist down on the hard mahogany desk. His suspicious had been confirmed. He had to read the rest   
of it, now, he couldn't not know... 

Dear Drago,   
Thank you for a wonderful evening. I had a lovely time, and something tells me that you did, as well. (Was there sexual   
innuendo in that seemingly innocent phrase? What did it actually mean?) Is there any chance of us repeating last night?   
(Repeating last night! What had happened 'last night'?) I would love to see you again.   
Kisses, (Kisses! This was serious!)   
FD. 

Only initials, no full name, but he had already identified the culprit. FD. Fleur. Fleur Delacour. He had known it was from her,   
subconsciously, by the smell. Peaches. She had smelt of peaches years ago, at the second Triwizard challenge, when she had   
kissed him. 

At that moment Harry froze. It seemed to him that the sky was falling and breaking to pieces over his head. Draco had stood him   
up, on their anniversary, preferring to fuck Fleur Delacour rather than spend the evening with the one he had always claimed he   
loved. How could Harry ever trust him again? During those painful minutes it slipped Harry's mind completely that Draco was a   
Malfoy and thus believed that whatever he did, however scandalous or cruel, had to be accepted by his entourage. 

And then... anger. Explosive and shattering, it filled the void in his chest created by his horrible discovery. How dare Draco do   
something like this, a thing so underhanded that it was very beneath him? How could Draco ever look him in the face again? And   
how could he, Harry, have let himself be played this way? He had been utterly seduced; he had drowned in Draco's gray-eyed,   
platinum-blonde-haired charms. Never again! Never again would such a thing happen to him, as long he had his wits about him.   
Fury darkened his eyes, and his fuming fists attacked the plump venom-green pillow on the bed beside him. 

"Fuck - fuck - fuck!" And for each fuck, a blow was delivered to the harmless pillow, who had only committed the fault of being in   
the wrong place at the wrong time. 

A creak. The doorknob, turning. The door opened. In walked Draco, eyes cloudy and blissful. They widened in surprise, those eyes of his, as he saw Harry, red in the face - but it wasn't a flush caused by embarrassment but by anger. 

"How dare you," Harry threw at him viciously. Draco, unprepared for this, opened his mouth, his lips forming an O, then closed it   
again. 

"Answer me!" barked Harry terribly. He was too enraged to realise that he had just given a Malfoy an order, and Draco was too   
stunned at his anger to notice it. "How DARE YOU?" 

"How dare I what?" faltered Draco. In lieu of a reply, Harry's arm dived towards Draco's desk. He crumpled the sheet of lavender stationary in his fist, balled it up, and tossed it to Draco, whose Seeker reflexes made him catch it. And now Draco was in a tough   
spot. Harry having proof, he could not deny it, yet there was nothing else he could say. He was at a total loss of words for what   
was perhaps the first time of his life. He blushed baby-pink, then paled, remembering that he probably had traces of lipstick on his   
robe collar. 

"I can't believe I ever trusted you." Harry's voice, smoky, vibrating, furious, low. The sound of it made Draco quake. "I can't   
believe I was ever in love with you. I can't believe I ever thought you were in love with me." Draco opened his mouth to say, 'I   
was - I am', but before he could get a word in, Harry added, "I can't believe I ever believed a word you told me. I can't believe I   
ever let you touch me. I can't believe I lost my virginity to you." At this Draco nearly snickered, but the situation being too serious,   
he caught himself in time. "I can't believe I ever thought you were different from the rest of you Slytherin rabble." 

"Harry, I..." Draco tried, desperately, to pull his thoughts together and come up with a reply to this onslaught of words. But he   
couldn't. He stepped forward, earnestly, and was stopped almost instantly by Harry, who had raised his hand and slapped him, very   
hard, across the face. 

"If you ever speak to me again, I swear I will crack every one of your ribs in half, you little shit." With that elegant parting   
comment, Harry walked out of the room, still radiating incredible anger. 

* * * 

"There's no way in _hell_ I'm going to ever wear this, Seamus Finnigan." Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust as he glared at his boyfriend's reflection in the mirror that Seamus had bought in first year. 

"But it looks lovely on you," protested Seamus with a pout. 

"I don't need one at all. For crissakes, I'm not a circus animal." 

"You think I'd fuck a circus animal?" 

"With you, no one can tell." 

Seamus made a face and mock-punched Ron in the hip. "Just leave it on." 

"Seamus, it's _orange._" 

"Isn't that better than purple?" 

Ron made a loud, frustrated groaning noise and attempted to tug the bright orange leash, Seamus' latest purchase, off his neck. It was truly a hideous thing. Besides being a neon orange, it had 'Chudley Cannons' writted on the collar. At least the old purple one, that Ron had magically destroyed in a fit of rebellion, had had nothing written on it. "I don't know _why_ you insist on wasting your money on such trash," he muttered. 

"Trash, perhaps, but _kinky_ trash, darling. Besides, I couldn't help it. The salesgirl was a Veela." 

"You shouldn't even set foot in that shop in the first place. I mean, you just admitted that they only sell junk." 

"Oh, not _only_ junk. Remember that riding crop? You _liked_ that riding crop, Ronnie." Seamus' eyes sparkled with mischief as he gazed admiringly at Ron's reflection. "And it might come in useful yet, you never know." He cackled with glee at Ron's disheartened cringe. 

"Arrgh - _yes!_" hissed Ron with a fierce smile. He had finally ripped the hideous off his neck. Dropping it to the floor triumphantly, he said, "I don't see _why_ you insist on making me wear the most inane things." 

"That reminds me," said Seamus, licking his lips thoughtfully. "What did you do with that slave collar?" 

"Burned it," answered Ron shortly, ruffling his own hair. 

"But _why?_" pouted Seamus, his tongue darting out of his mouth suddenly, touching Ron's ear. Seamus moved his mouth closer to Ron's left ear. Ron's ears would have been Seamus' favorite part of Ron's anatomy if it hadn't been for Ron's - _ahem_. 

"Because you've got a master-slave fixation and I don't think it would do you any particular good to encourage it. Is that a good enough reason?" Seamus did not answer because at that moment his teeth began savaging Ron's earlobe. "Ayee - hey, that skin's tender! Watch it!... _oh,_ my." 

Seamus grinned; his hands crept down past Ron's waistband, and his fingers, experienced and dexterous as always, did something to Ron that made the redhead sink down to the floor with a moan of agonizing pleasure, pulling Seamus on top of him. Seamus giggled, Ron flushed and wondered if there was any way he would be able to make it to the door, to lock it, before Seamus tried another of his breath-taking tricks. 

* * * 

Parvati and Lavender, both sitting on Lavender's bed, were poring over glossy, fat catalogues from various wizarding _haute couture_ clothing stores in England. They were trying to decide what to wear for their end-of-the-year graduation ball, a lavish, extravagant affair (or so they had been told) for which Parvati was convinced they had dress up. It would, without a doubt, have been wiser to study, as they had their final exams in three weeks, but Lavender was an airhead and Parvati chose clothes over books every time. "Leave the studying to Hermione," as she always said. 

"Well, I like that one," said Lavender after a while, pointing to a full-page illustration of a young witch in a short, tight dresh. 

"Yes, of course," said Parvati, "but it's _magenta_," and her tone made her blonde best friend drop the subject of that particular dress. She remembered just in time that Parvati hated flashy colours. "If we don't find something to wear," Parvati went on, "what on earth will we do?" 

"We'll find something," soothed Lavender, eternally optimistic - because she was too stupid to envision the possibility of rainclouds coming to spoil her picnic. 

"Yes, but the _right_ something," grumbled Parvati, an incessant perfectionnist when it came to her clothes. "Something not too short, not too tight - but just short and tight _enough_. You know." 

Lavender tossed her teased blonde hair over her shoulders. "Oh, stop your fussing. We're the two hottest girls in the year. We could wear _potato sacks_ to that ball and not even do our _hair_ and have everyone tell us how _great_ we look!" 

Lavender's italics and little hand gestures were sickening. Parvati rolled her eyes at the stupidity and wondered why she had never, in seven years, bothered to find herself a more intelligent vassal. 

"Oh, you're right," she said. "We _could_ go to the ball in potato sacks." And when Lavender brightened, pleased to have her spur-of-the-moment suggestion taken seriously, Parvati added icily, "But the day I sink low enough to wear a potato sack will be the day I stab myself in the chest with my wand. Keep that in mind and think about it, Lavender Brown, before you make another asinine comment like that!" Impressed by how angry she sounded, she wished she could sweep from the room elegantly, like woman in a fury always did in books, but then she'd just have to come back in again and that would make _her_ look stupid. 

Lavender, deflated by this harsh outburst, sank her head in her shoulders, too shy suddenly to ask what 'asinine' meant. Not that Parvati would have told her if she _had _asked. After a few minutes of silence she spoke up, meekly. "What I _meant_ was -" and then she stopped. She couldn't possibly say, 'What I meant was that it doesn't really matter how we look' as she had been going to. If she did, Parvati, to whom the thing that mattered most was her own appearance, would take her head off. 

"What you meant was?" Despite her annoyance Parvati was curious to see in what way Lavender would clumsily attempt to disguise her idiocy. 

"I meant that I don't think the others will be particularly stylish." 

"That doesn't mean _we - _" Parvati meant 'I' - "shouldn't be dressed for the occasion." 

"True." 

"Besides," said Parvati, tossing aside the catalogue she had been looking at, and picking up another one, "I have a feeling Padma will try to outdo herself - " Parvati meant 'me' - "to impress Hermione with her looks." By that time the whole school knew that its Head Girl and one of its most brilliant Ravenclaws were together. Harry, reeling with the shock of his discovery, had told Ron, who had in turn told a post-coital Seamus; and Seamus had thought it his duty to inform the whole student body. 

"Her _looks_?" sneered Lavender. It was a sneer perfect considering the moment - seven years of hanging out with Parvati had taught Lavender a lot about the different sneers - the amused sneer, the disgusted sneer, the indifferent sneer, the hatred-filled sneer, the common or garden sneer. _This _sneer, for instance, was sneering enough to let Parvati know that Lavender thought nobody could equal her - Parvati's - looks, yet light enough so that Parvati wouldn't think her sister had been insulted. 

"Yes, her looks. She _is_ my identical twin after all. She would be _much_ more beautiful if only she'd take better care of her face... _Ooh! _Look at this one!" She pointed to a photograph - moving, of course. Lavender leaned in to get a better look. 

The dress was strapless, floor-lenght and navy blue, bedecked with tiny gold and silver stars that glittered in the photo like jewels. A sort of _voile_ in navy blue star-covered tulle was draped around the model's arms. A small paragraph next to the dress said, in flashy pink letters, _This dress, a stunning addition to our collection, is made of velvet magicked to be paper-thin and as light as silk. The stars are made of real gold and silver thread. Guaranteed to make every male in the building pay attention. _And underneath, in much smaller print, _579 Galleons. To order, owl:..._ Parvati stopped reading. 

"I've _got_ to have it!" she shrieked happily, clapping her hands with joy. 

"You would look wonderful in it," agreed Lavender, "but... the price. I mean, my last dress was wasn't over two hundred." 

"_Money_ is _not_ an option, when it comes to my _appearance._" Parvati stood up regally, her eyes shining. She walked towards the door as though in a daze, stumbling more than once as she pictured herself sweeping into the Great Hall in that dress. Her hair would be brushed to perfection. Terry Boot would say... 

"Hey, where are you going?" 

"To the Owlery. I have to send my order!" Parvati stopped in the doorway and looked back at Lavender. "If it gets here on time, you'll see... I'll be the belle of the ball." She laughed. "As I always am. But I might even outdo myself this time." 

* * * 

Blaise, leaned against one of the Owlery walls, was listening to Terry drone on about the best way to kill a person - namely, Padma. Now that she knew Terry had no real intention of killing the Ravenclaw girl, she couldn't help losing interest in their pointless plot. She was beginning to think that Terry might also be blind - not literally, but he couldn't see what pains she was going through to get him interested in her - and not just for her evil-plan-scheming talents. 

"Drowning is an option, of course, but there are so many difficulties. For one thing one of us would have to push her in, but we couldn't afford to be seen of the place of her death. And we also don't know how good a swimmer she is. A good swimmer suddenly drowning seems suspicious, no?" 

"We'd be found out," groaned Blaise, bored with the talk. "They'd use Veritaserum." She wondered how thick his skull was underneath that wavy brown hair. She was propped against a wall, looking up at him, and he was leaning above her, his arm on the wall right next to her head. It was a perfect romantic scenario, but apparently he couldn't see that. She decided to speak up. "Terry... since we both know we won't really kill her... couldn't we talk about anything else?" As she spoke she could have kicked herself for her timidity. She was a Slytherin, dammit, she was supposed to act like she owned the world! Yet there she was, reduced to a shy, stuttering thirteen-year-old by a handsome Head Boy. 

"About what?" 

"About... the dance?" _Am I sounding too hopeful? Too eager? Too... much like a Hufflepuff? Fuck, if he were anyone else he'd be licking my boots out of fear by now! I am a _Slytherin_! And I'm wearing extremely bad-ass leather pants! What's _wrong _with him?_

"Ah, yes. Pointless affair in my opinion. As if we haven't had enough parties this year." 

_Pointless!_ "Does that mean you're not going?" 

"Well, my going there might... I might see..." 

For one awful hope-filled second, Blaise thought he might finish his sentence with 'you in tighter clothes'. Then she realized that what he wanted to see Hermione, one last time, before they graduated and she waltzed out of his life (although they still had a day at Hogwarts after the dance, to pack their bags). She almost stamped her foot in frustration. _Goddamn you, Terry Boot, for being such an ass. _Inside her robe pocket, her left hand gripped her wand. Anger, frustration, lack of sleep and basic Slytherin-ness had made her so angry that she wanted to hex him. She knew a very good Shrinkage curse. (Although, when asked exactly _what_ the curse shrank, Blaise would smile wickedly and walk away, without answering.) 

"Oh, I don't doubt that it's absolutely _necessary _for you to... _see_ somebody before you go. I understand completely," she told him, her italics infused with poison and sarcasm. 

"Well, I..." Terry trailed off, then added: "Are you going?" 

"Going where? Back to my dorm? Or to the dance?" 

"... both, I guess." 

Blaise had had enough by that point. She was more than sick of being so goddamned _nice_ to him, and _nice_ to random nobodies when she was with Terry so that he would think her _nice_. Her true Slytherin nature, not to be denied, raised its bad-ass head. 

"I don't see why that would be _any_ fucking concern of yours, since all you seem to want to do is sit by yourself in some corner of the library and moon after your precious Hermione." Her eyes sparkled with something close to anger, but she smiled - evilly, of course. How delicious it felt to be so harshly truthful! She hadn't insulted anyone outside of her dormitory for a week now - a record she did not like. "You live in some sort of sick fantasy world, Boot. She's gone, she's left you for someone that she loves more than she ever could have loved _you_ - get over it! For crissakes, you little fuck, why can't you see that if you weren't so busy dreaming of happiness with her, you might realize happiness was right in front of you?" 

The look of shock and hurt on Terry's face was classical. Who needed magic and curses when one could destroy a person verbally? Blaise stopped leaning on the wall. She gave Terry a sideways look. 

"Good-bye, Terry," she said, and then, leaving him to stand with his mouth open, looking like an idiot, she walked away.   



	19. Chapter XIX

It was a sweltering hot day; the temperature had gone up very suddenly over the weekend. When the third outdoor thermometer had been reduced to a shapeless blob of half-liquid half-solid glass and plastic by the merciless heat, Madam Pomfrey had declared it a health hazard for the students to be cooped up in classrooms all day. "The best thing for them," she had proclaimed at breakfast that morning, "would be to make them stay out-doors all day. Otherwise Lord knows what this horrid weather might do to them." 

That was the reason why the whole of Hogwarts, excluding the teachers who had all gone to the Three Broomsticks for a cold drink, was outside by the lake on a Tuesday afternoon. A great many of them were swimming, bobbing in and out of the water like so many wet seals. The ones who had preferred to remain dry were picknicking and snogging on the grass. Some were flying, tossing the Quaffle to one another in the air, and then coming down to the ground because they were too sweaty to keep a good grip on their broom handles. 

Blaise, that morning, defying Madam Pomfrey and Mother Nature, had put on her day-to-day, billowing black school robes. But she had had to admit that it was much too hot for such an outfit, and had changed into a green-and-silver t-shirt and denim shorts. She had to admit that she looked good, dressed like that; for some reason that knowledge displeased her. 

She lay comatose against an old oak by the lake, the tree's rough bark embedded in her cheek, hoping that the proximity of the lake would cool her down a bit. So far it had not; but there was hope still. _Hurrah for old Pomfrey_, she thought. _So good of her to give us a day off._ Squinting down towards the lake, she could see Granger and Patil splashing around childishly in th water - _making spectacles of themselves, of course, but what could you expect from a Mudblood and an airhead? Shouldn't Granger be studying for her NEWTs?_

Heat closed in around her, trapping her skin in a blanket of uncomfortable, nausea-inducing warmth. The knowledge that she could do nothing to protect herself from this was even more sickening. Blaise had grown up knowing that, with her wand, she was protected from all the dangers that were likely to strike her. So being unable to protect herself from a simple heat wave enraged her. _Where's a wand when you need one? I'm sure I know a cooling charm._

She opened her eyes to check if her wand was beside her, and spotted Terry Boot walking in her direction. She could tell that he hadn't spotted her, because he was walking aimlessly- but she didn't intend to be spotted. She made a halfhearted attempt to get up and walk away, or hide behind the oak, or anything... but the heat and the nausea and her sleepiness prevented her. She slumped against the tree's roots gracelessly and watched him, through half-opened eyes, make his way towards her - _does he really not know I'm here?_

Whether he knew she was there or not, Terry only turned his head towards her when he was a mere six feet from her. 

"Blaise." 

"Terry," she acknowledged, eyes closed. She thought that such a cool hello would surely make him feel unwelcome and he would decide to leave her the hell alone. She was been wrong. 

Terry sat down next to her and said nothing for a few seconds; the silence that settled in was _loud_, strangely enough. Adding to the heat of the sun glaring above their heads was the heat from his body, only inches away from hers. Any other time this would have made her almost weak-kneed - _almost _but not quite_,_ because she _was _a Slytherin, after all - but now it just made her sicker. And irritated - _standing there not saying anything like some big idiot..._

"Well? What is it?" she demanded roughly, pushing her hair away from her face and turning towards him. 

"I was just wondering..." 

"I'm sure the library has the answer to any question you could possibly have." Since it was too hot for her to get up and torment some poor Hufflepuff, she would take her anger out of him. "In fact, if you hurry and go there right now, I'm sure you might see your precious _Hermione_ there -" was there a limit to how much poison and sarcasm she could infuse in a harmless name? - "oh, no, she's over there, making out with Padma Patil in the water." 

He followed her gaze and blanched. Hermione was, indeed, kissing Padma; only their heads were visible above the water. He shuddered to think of what the rest of them, that he couldn't see, was doing. 

"I wanted to know what you meant when you said 'happiness is just in front of you'." 

Blaise closed her eyes. Something wet coursed down her cheek, but she was too sickened and tired by the heat to know if it was tears - but she _never _cried_ - _or sweat. "What do you _think_ I meant?" she snapped, touching her hand to her forehead. "You're a Ravenclaw. You should be smart enough to figure it out yourself." 

A pause, during which Blaise cracked her knuckles loudly, and Terry stared out at the lake. After thirty seconds or so, he murmured, "My stars, you're odd... You're absolutely angry at nothing. But you look like you could be... tender, if you wanted." 

Blaise opened her eyes. "Don't you dare analyse my personality," she snarled. "Don't you presume you know me. Because you don't know shit, Terry Boot. You don't know shit." 

Terry smirked. "What did you mean when you said that thing about my happiness?" he asked again. 

"Won't give up, will you?" 

"No, I won't." Terry grabbed her hand, suddenly. It was damp from sweat, and sticky. Blaise, surprised, raised her eyebrows at him, which prompted him to add: "Because you're the type that wouldn't give a damn about other people's well-being unless your own was also at stake... Did you, perchance, mean happiness with _you_?" 

"And if I did?" It took no small amount of effort to keep her voice so sarcastic when her heart was beating erratically, but she managed. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Granger, who was doing complex-looking dives to show off. Terry's hand increased its grip on her and pulled her towards him. Caught off-guard, and weakened by the abnormally high temperature, she fell and gasped; her head collided with his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. Confused, she looked up; amazingly, her eyes were devoid of hatred. 

Terry smiled. "If you did..." He didn't bother finishing his sentence. His hands were on either side of Blaise's face now. He leaned down and kissed her, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth. Blaise's second gasp was muffled by his tongue. 

_It's supposed to be enjoyable_. The words rang through her head. _It is supposed to be a pleasant thing, to be kissing a guy you've had a crush on for over a year._ But it wasn't. The warmth from Terry's body added to the forty-three degrees of the air around them. Blaise, who was used to a perpetually chilly environment, due to the fact that she lived in a dungeon, felt sick. He was kissing her more energetically now, and she liked it, but she didn't want to risk her breakfast ending up in his mouth. She pushed him firmly away. 

Terry, confused, looked at her with wide eyes. "If that wasn't what you meant... then I'm sorry." 

She heard herself reply: "Too hot to snog, unless it's in the lake." She grinned, widely, and added: "Want to go for a swim?" 

* * * 

"I need to talk to you." 

Seamus looked up from the star-chart he had been filling in for the past hour. It was quite unlike Seamus to be doing schoolwork when there was fun to be had - he could hear the small party that the out-of-doors students had started from his window - but Professor Sinistra had informed him the previous week that if he didn't get his act together - all right, so those weren't her exact words - he would fail Astronomy. 

Ron was leaning against his doorway, absentmindedly playing with his Gryffindor tie. He looked quite serious - very unlike the way he'd looked the previous night, which Seamus remembered with an unholy grin. 

"What is it, Ronnikins?" He stood up, shuffling the rolls of parchment. He put the ink-dripping quill. 

Ron did not move from where he was. He bit his lip, and Seamus noted that he was pale; his freckles stood out even more than they usually did. _Hasn't been out in the sun much, has he._

"Seamus, honey, I... I..." Ron looked down at his shoes and took a deep breath. "I have this overwhelming urge to fuck a girl." 

Seamus, who had been expecting something much worse from Ron's tired, guilty eyes, burst out laughing. His body shook with silent hilarity, and he had to grab the corner of his desk to keep from falling over. 

"What," asked Ron sourly, "is so funny?" 

"Now you know how _I_ feel," Seamus told him with a chuckle, kissing Ron's sweaty freckled cheek affectionately. Then, realizing that Ron was quite serious about what he had said, he added, "oh, go ahead if you want. It doesn't bother me; I wouldn't mind. It would be hypocritical of me to make a fuss out of this, wouldn't it?" 

"But... it just feels so _wrong_," moaned Ron. He sat down in Seamus' computer chair, tugging at his collar. "I mean - when you're dating somebody, you're not supposed to want to shag someone else." 

Seamus flushed. "Not in my book." He looked down at the floor, knowing that Ron hadn't meant to offend him, but feeling insulted all the same. 

"Oops - that's not what I meant, Seamy..." 

"Never mind what you meant," said Seamus, waving the matter away. "So tell me, who's the girl?" 

Ron looked away, blushing fiercely, and bit his lip again. He always did when he was nervous. "Lavender Brown," he managed to say. 

Seamus snorted. "Why on earth would you want to shag old Lav?" he asked impatiently. "She's got less brain cells than Crabbe and-or Goyle." 

Ron shrugged. "I dunno... it's just horniness, I guess." 

Seamus snorted yet again. "If I were to blame my hormones, each time I slept with someone other than the person I'd be dating at the time..." He paused, as though unsure of whether or not he should say what he was planning to, then blurted out recklessly, "Besides, she's not that good a lay, anyway." 

Ron made a gurgling, choking noise in his throat and looked up, scandalised. "What? You..." 

"Fifth year," said Seamus nonchalantly, shrugging as though it was unimportant. "Doesn't matter, does it?" He smiled beatifically at Ron, as though he was doing the redhead a huge favour. "You're free to fuck her if you want." 

"Hold on a second. I don't want a reputation like yours." 

"Hey, that hurt," protested Seamus. Ron coloured at his second unintentional _faux-pas_, and Seamus told him, in an admonishing tone, "I may have a reputation, but I have a lot more fun that you do at school, Ronnikins, and that's a fact." He smirked lopsidedly. 

Ron ignored him. "So, I can?... You wouldn't mind?..." 

"No," said Seamus flatly. He was irrited by Ron, who had insulted him twice in the space of ten minutes. Of course, he hadn't done it on purpose, but _he really should _think _for a bit before he opens his big gob,_ thought the sandy-haired boy. He turned back to his star-chart. "Would you mind leaving now?" he asked with unusual primness. "I was busy." 

"What?" said Ron, rightfully surprised. 

"Even people with a _reputation like mine_ have homework to do, Ron," Seamus said coldly. He pushed Ron out of the dormitory firmly, and shut the door in his face. 

* * * 

Fleur's damp hair hung limply over her shoulders. She squeezed Draco's hand sympathetically, and looked down to the ground, slightly embarassed. "I'm sorry, Drago," she told him apologetically. "I didn't know about 'Arry, ozerwise I wouldn't have..." She trailed off, then glanced up at him, her blue eyes inquisitive. 

Draco sighed. He and Fleur were sitting on the edge of Hogsmeade's only swimming pool, their feet in the water. Draco had went to Fleur's loft to tell her that Harry had found her note and that he was not too happy, and the two of them had then gone to the pool to escape the heat while they spoke. Draco was forcing himself to look Fleur in the eyes; given the fact that she was wearing a bikini, it might have been too distracting to gaze anywhere else. 

"It's not your fault," he said. "I shouldn't have... done what I did." 

Fleur wiggled her toes in the water. "Oh, it _is_ my fault. Partially, at least. Even if you 'ad refused, my Veela powers would have convinced you to come with me." 

"So we're both the guilty party," murmured Draco. "So what? That doesn't change anything." He buried his face in his hands, feeling that it was quite ridiculous that he should be so close to tears. _No use crying over spilt milk_, he reminded himself. 

"No," Fleur agreed softly, "it doesn't." 

"It doesn't change the fact that I lost what I had with Harry," sniffled red-eyed Draco. "The way he looked at me when he saw the note... His eyes were filled with hatred. Hatred for me. And he _threatened_ me. Of course it wasn't the first time that he threatened me... but that had been _before_." He was quite aware of the fact that he was rambling, but he couldn't help himself. Fleur was such a good listener, nodding intently at every word he said, and occasionally patting him on the knee to show that she cared. 

"I just _know_ he won't forgive me for this," he moaned. "He doesn't love me anymore. I mean, I stood him up. On our anniversary. Our two-month anniversary. Nobody forgives people who do that." 

"There there," said Fleur. She patted Draco on the back, but that did not appear to comfort him; he ran a hand through his hair and went on. 

"And I really, really loved him. I really did, you know. Sure, I played mind games with him sometimes, and I slept around a bit behind his back, but... Loving someone does not mean that you can't fuck someone else. But he doesn't understand that. He never did. He's a monogamous kind of guy." 

"There there," said Fleur again. She was sorry for Draco, but in no mood to listen to him whinging on about his broken relationship. 

"I don't know what I'll do without him. He was a bit whiny at first, but... he grows on you, Fleur. He's really adorable. And I love him and I miss him and he hates me and he'd like to see me dead. I'm sorry for what I did, but I can't tell him that, because he'd kill me. He said he would. He said he'd break every bone in my body if I ever went near him again. And I can't write him because he wouldn't read it." 

"Tough situation," said Fleur. She was beginning to feel _very_ annoyed. Usually when a man was in such close proximity to a Veela in a skimpy bikini, he thought of other things than his ex-boyfriend. And he usually _did_ other things than sniffle and wipe his eyes. 

Draco burst into tears. Very noisy tears. They made Fleur roll her eyes impatiently as she flicked her hair back from her eyes and re-adjusted her bikini top, hoping that seeing Veela cleavage bouncing would snap him out of it. Fleur was a sweet, understanding girl - nine days out of ten. The tenth she was recklessly horny, in heat, willing to shag anything that moved. 

That day was a tenth. 

"Got a hankie?" asked Draco 

"No, but you can wipe your nose in my boobies," said Fleur absentmindedly. This statement was met by two highly raised eyebrows. 

"I've never been propositioned so unsubtly before," Draco said, considering. "Well, I have, but it was by people far uglier than you." 

"Draco?" 

"Yes?" 

"Shut the fuck up." 

* * *   



	20. Chapter XX

Dear everybody who's been waiting for this chapter for months: I know the amount of time I've taken to write and upload this thing is unpardonable. Sorry! Apologies all around, and I've decided to blame it on writer's block, even though you know and I know that's not the real reason.  
  
(The real reason, of course, is that I'm a very very lazy person, and instead of writing the end of C&B this summer like I'd promised to, I spent the summer months lying around in a nearly comatose state, on the edge of a heat stroke.)  
  
Very Important Announcement: I've decided that, after C&B is finished (I will finish it soon, I swear!) I won't be dumping my shit on FF.net anymore. I've had it with FF.net and FF.net's stupid, pointless rules about NC-17 fics. I'm moving to Snitchfiction.net, and if any of you will want, in the future, to read the sequel to C&B or any of my other fics, you'll have to look there. Okay? (The pen name stays the same.)  
  
On a side note - could you guys please review 'Rabbits' for me? It would be greatly appreciated. Reviewers get a cookie : )  
  
Luv you always.  
  
PS: I'd like to know, out of the LOTR fans among you, how many think Sam is hot for Frodo or vice-versa?  
  
* * *  
  
"Malfoy?"  
  
Draco looked up from the book he was pretending to read in his bed. Hermione stood in the doorway, with her arms crossed over her chest, frowning at him. He swallowed dryly.  
  
By that time there wasn't a soul alive - or dead, because the ghosts and paintings enjoyed spreading gossip around as much as the students - in Hogwarts that wasn't aware of what had happened between him and Harry. They all knew that he had cheated on his Gryffindor boyfriend on their anniversary, and that Harry was absolutely furious about it and refused to speak to Draco anymore. Then Draco, who had never before been bothered by the fact that the whole school knew of his doings, suffered much because of this excess knowledge. He was kicked, spat at and insulted each time he crossed a Harry-fan in the hallways. He had been beaten up by Ron two days previously. And he had no doubt as to the reason of Hermione's visit.  
  
"If you've come to tell me that I'm a worthless piece of fly-ridden shit, don't bother," he shot at her. "Finnigan's already taken care of that one."  
  
Without waiting to be invited in, Hermione crossed the room and sat down on Draco's leather swivel chair. "Harry's very mad at you," she said.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. It was quite unlike the sharp-as-a-tack Hermione to make a statement so obvious. "Ye-es," he said slowly, "I know."  
  
"You have to apologize."  
  
Draco, staring fiercely at the floor, missed the gentle look in her eyes and thought the comment was a reproach. "You think I didn't?" he exploded. "I've done nothing but apologize for the past three days!" He paused, waiting for a reaction, and as Hermione said nothing, he went on, the frustration and anger of the past week pouring out as he spoke.  
  
"I wrote him letters, detailing my extreme regret and containing numerous pleas for forgiveness. He sent them back, shredded into confetti-sized bits. I even flew to his window to try and serenade him yesterday - serenade him, for crissakes - and he throws a coffee mug at me. " He brushed aside a lock of hair, revealing a small purple-green bump on his head. "Believe me, Granger, I already apologized - and he didn't give a damn."  
  
"Look. Draco - "  
  
"And since when are we on a first-name basis?!" shrieked Draco, determined to put in his signature touch of nastiness.  
  
"Fine, then. Malfoy -"  
  
"And how the fuck did you get in here anyway? Who gave you the password?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up and listen to me," snapped Hermione. When Draco looked up, surprised at her little outburst, she shrugged, and added, "I know Harry, and he's really soft-hearted, and he does love you -"  
  
"He sure has a funny way of showing it," said Draco sullenly.  
  
"He's just shocked," Hermione continued, raising her voice to cover Draco's, "and betrayed - and who can blame him?"  
  
"But I've already apologized," repeated Draco with a pout.  
  
"If at first you don't succeed," said Hermione, "try, try again. Besides, I'm going to have a little discussion with Harry this evening - I might be able to talk some sense into him. Don't worry. I have the feeling that everything will work out." She flashed a smile before walking out.  
  
The whole encounter had lasted less than ten minutes, but Draco thought about it long after Hermione had gone. She was right. He hated to admit it, but she was right. He needed to try again. He needed to see Harry face to face.  
  
And he had to do that now, before it was too late.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny decided to skip Potions class. She was sure that spending two hours in the same small dungeon cell with Snape, and be forced to spend that same amount of time standing in front of a bubbling, foul-smelling cauldron would only make her sick. And she was already not feeling well because of the heat wave that held Hogwarts Castle in its grip.  
  
She sat cross-legged on her bed, talking softly to herself as she sorted her mail. Replying to mail had to be done quickly when one did not have an owl of their own, because the post-office owls would only wait a few minutes for a reply to take back.  
  
"A letter from Witch Weekly. no, I won't renew my subscription. a letter from Mum." She tossed the envelope into the wastebasket without opening it. "Two more love-letters from Colin Creevey? Urgh. And what the hell is this?"  
  
'This' was an small envelope that smelled very strongly of cologne. Ginny was about to rip it up, like she had done to the two letters from Creevey, when curiosity got the better of her. She tore it open. A small piece of paper fell in her lap. She unfolded it and held it up.  
  
My dear Ginny (or Virginia, whichever you prefer)  
  
You're absolutely furious with me, aren't you, because you think I kissed that girl. You're wrong, you know. She kissed me. I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time - and I was looking for you.  
  
I won't beg for forgiveness, but I hope you'll realize that I am merely a victim of unfortunate circumstances.  
  
Love Ludo  
  
The first thought that crossed Ginny's mind was You should never have wasted your time reading that. The next was What wouldn't I give for the chance to disembowel the fucker? She turned the paper over to see if anything was written on the other side. It was blank. She groped for her quill and hastily scribbled a reply.  
  
Dear 'victim of unfortunate circumstances',  
  
I have only four words to say to you. They are 'fuck', 'off', 'statutory' and 'rape. The last two could get you up to ten years in Azkaban, if I were to decide to tell the authorities exactly what you did to me, you nasty, nasty old man.  
  
Hate, Ginny.  
  
Ps: If you ever contact me again, I shall contact Cornelius Fudge and get a restraining order against you.  
  
She looked up to see if the mail owl was still there. It was. She motioned to it as she slipped the letter into its original envelope. It perched on her knee. She patted its head, gave it a sickle, and put the envelope in its beak.  
  
"Take that to Ludo Bagman," she instructed, and watched as the bird spread its wings and flew out the windows. She followed the course of its flight for a few moments, then gritted her teeth and muttered, "Bastard."  
  
And she didn't mean the owl.  
  
* * *  
  
That evening at half-past seven, Draco stood before the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was napping, and her large, jelly-like bosom shook as she snored. Draco shuddered at the sight. "Um," he muttered, rapping his knuckles against the painting. "Wake up, would you - please?"  
  
He had remembered his manners just in time.  
  
The Fat Lady opened an eye and looked him up and down. "Password?" she asked, but the tone in her voice plainly said that she knew he didn't belong in Gryffindor, and that she was just asking as a formality.  
  
"Look," said Draco, his words tumbling out of his mouth in his hurry, "I don't know the password, but I've got to get in the Common room, it's really urgent, I've got to speak to Harry."  
  
"Oh, yes," exclaimed the Fat Lady, recognising him, "you're Draco Malfoy. Hm. I still don't know if I should let you in. I heard what you did to that poor boy, Violet told me. Downright shameful, that's what. It's a wonder you dare show your face around here!"  
  
"But that's exactly the point," Draco exclaimed, "I want to apologize." He gave her the Bambi-eyes, because it always worked in desperate situations - and this was the most desperate situation he'd ever been in. Yet instead of remedying to it, he was forced to plead with dusty old paintings. "Let me through," he added, his voice carrying a touch of sullenness.  
  
"We-ell." the Fat Lady relented. "All right. But if I get into any sort of trouble over this, I'll say that you held me at wandpoint." She gave him a stern look before the portrait swung open.  
  
Draco was always, at first, surprised by how red everything was - the walls, the carpet and the fat velvet armchairs. It gave him the feeling that he had just ventured inside a large furnace, and he wondered how the Gryffindors could stand it during this horribly hot weather.  
  
A tapestry depicting Godric Gryffindor's first successful dragon-slaying covered a wall. A cluster of round tables filled most of the space. Sitting at one of these tables near an open window were Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Dean and Parvati.  
  
Oh, shit, thought Draco. If any of the boys spotted him, he would get a many, many fists to the stomach. Why hadn't he thought of bringing his Cloak? He crouched, fixed his gaze to the staircase at the other side of the room, and concentrated every fibre of his being on getting to it as fast as he could and without being spotted. He took a tiny step, on tiptoe, then another, then another, until his heartbeat slowed. And then Draco made his big mistake.  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
The noise was almost imperceptible, but Parvati, whose hypersensitive ears could pick up gossip whispered fifty feet away, heard it. She turned around, and, seeing him, said ironically, "Well, look what the evil, skanky cat dragged in."  
  
"What?" Draco heard Weasley ask.  
  
"Malfoy's here," answered Parvati simply.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Draco instantly froze, realizing that there was no longer any possible chance of escaping. Pretty soon he would win a free trip to the Hospital Wing, courtesy of Weasley's wrathful fist.  
  
"Malfoy?" Dean's voice, more curious than hostile, but by no means friendly. "What in the name of fuck are you doing here?"  
  
Draco straightened his back, determined to face the moment, now that it had come, with dignity. His facial muscles worked to keep an expression of fear off his face. "That, Thomas, is my own business, and I would thank you to mind yours." It was nearly miraculous how he managed to keep his voice cool and clipped, just as he would sound in usual circumstances.  
  
"Wrong answer." A scraping noise followed the statement as Ron pushed back his chair and stood up. "One more try, Malfoy."  
  
Draco's lips remained firmly pressed together. He looked at Ron, then Dean, then Seamus, and his gaze did not waver. Just as the three boys began to clench their fists, Hermione came to his rescue.  
  
"I think," she said, "that Draco's come to speak to Harry."  
  
"You've done enough damage already," hissed Seamus at Draco, and it was quite amazing to see how fierce and angry Seamus looked, he who was usually so jovial.  
  
"I think," said Hermione again, testily this time, "that Draco's sole aim in coming here is to repair that damage. Because I honestly don't see why he'd risk his health by coming here otherwise."  
  
"Oh, yeah, right," Ron replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He's risking his life, the poor misguided soul. Don't you think you're overdoing it a bit, Mione? He's probably got his wand in his pocket and any second now he'll pull it out and attempt to blow us to smithereens. Besides, even if he is here to speak to Harry, he's got no right to. He cheated on him."  
  
Parvati spoke up suddenly. "Oh, and you would know nothing whatsoever about cheating on someone, would you, Ron?" she asked sharply.  
  
Ron paled, then blushed, his head sinking between his shoulders.  
  
Draco took advantage of the break in conversation to say, "Hermione's right."  
  
"You may be right," said Dean to Hermione, taking great pains to ignore Draco's very similar comment, "but that doesn't change the fact that I don't trust the pale-faced little backstabber."  
  
Draco clenched his jaw and tried to pretend the insults didn't hurt.  
  
"Do you trust anyone that isn't or wasn't a Gryffindor?" Parvati asked.  
  
An uncomfortable pause followed, during which Draco swallowed dryly and looked from one face to the other, with the unpleasant feeling that he was the target of all the thinly-disguised hatred in the room.  
  
Finally Ron spoke, as though he was the leader of the group and had to make an important decision. "You can go. 'apologize'." he said, "but you had better be out of here in half an hour." He didn't bother adding 'or else". The two words were omnipresent in every single thing he said to Draco.  
  
"Thank you," said Draco, and it wasn't until much later that he realized he'd said the words with genuine gratitude instead of sarcasm.  
  
His hopes lifted, he leaped up the stairs, making a great deal of noise. He opened the door that had "Seventh Year - Boys" written on it, and entered the room.  
  
Harry was lying on his bed, apparently doing nothing productive whatsoever. Neville, curled up on the floor, was perusing a comic book, but when he spotted Draco, he pulled himself jerkily to his feet and scuttled out of the room.  
  
No more backbone than a shell-less snail, thought Draco, in the venomous way that was reserved for Longbottom only.  
  
Harry was sitting up. "What do you want?" His voice came out in a croak, as though it was the first time he had spoken that day. Draco wondered whether he had stayed in his dormitory all day, shrouded in silence, or had he managed to attend his classes without breathing a word to anybody, without answering a single question?  
  
"I. I. um." Draco's words fled pell-mell from his head, because there were two green eyes glaring into his head like angry spotlights, and two weeks before those same eyes only expressed a feeling of intense love and lust. Never loathing, never hatred. And Draco couldn't deal with hatred. Disapproval, which was usually directed at him, he could handle. Not hatred. Unease swirled in nauseating circles deep inside his belly.  
  
He half-expected Harry to clench his fists at him, or make a threatening gesture of that kind, but instead Harry grabbed his wand, which was infinitely worse. Draco decided to get out of the room before he got turned into a slug. He backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on Harry's, as one would do when walking away from a strange dog, then he opened the door and slid one foot across the threshold.  
  
"Malfoy? Why are you going into my closet?"  
  
Draco blinked. He was, indeed, inside Harry's - rather cluttered - closet. "Um," he began, determined to make this attempt at speech more coherent that the previous one. "I'm, uh, looking for my, uh. tie. Yes, my Slytherin tie. You have it. I think."  
  
"Well, take it and leave." Harry fingered his wand.  
  
Draco peered into some of the dusty shoeboxes piled on the closet floor. His tie story was a lie, of course, but that was not a good enough reason to pass up a chance to search through Harry's closet. "Harry?" he said, fingering Harry's pointy hat. "I'm sorry." He'd spoken so softly that he doubted Harry heard him. "I really am sorry, for everything." Especially for first thinking that your anger was a sulky fit that would end after a day and a half, he added to himself.  
  
"It's a bit too late for apologies, isn't it?" answered Harry. "If I find your tie, I'll owl it to you. Get out."  
  
"Harry." But Draco looked up, and their eyes met. He realized it would be useless to argue: sometime during the past few days sulky!Harry had turned into homicidal!Harry. He walked towards the door, the real door this time, and on the way he began to talk to himself, almost inaudibly at first, then faster and louder, his words like bullets directed at Harry.  
  
"I already said I'm sorry about a thousand times and isn't that good enough for you and what more do you want from me I'm not perfect and anyway I never said I am, and you're turning this sitch into a really fucking big deal and what happened to Gryffindor chivalry and let bygones be bygones and forgive and forget and all that shit?" He turned around to face Harry and went on. "And everyone is ignoring the fact that she's a Veela and she has Veela boobies and how was I supposed to resist that and it was just a one-night stand it didn't mean a thing and goddamn it the whole fucking school is twisting my words and I'm sick of it and He felt violently nauseous, all of a sudden; his knees turned to jelly and he fell to the floor. "AND I SAID I'M SORRY!" He made a weebling noise of desperation and burst into tears.  
  
What did Hermione say? That Harry's really soft-hearted? That's true. He is soft-hearted. He'll see that he made me cry and he'll feel all remorseful and he'll come and comfort me.  
  
A slight creaking noise interrupted his thoughts. Harry had leaped off his bed. Draco felt the floor vibrate under Harry's footsteps. When he felt, briefly, Harry's hand close to his cheek, he couldn't help grinning wildly.  
  
But then that same hand dived down, grabbed Draco's shirt collar, and yanked him roughly off the floor. The other hand twisted the doorknob, opening the door, and the next thing Draco knew he was on the floor in the corridor.  
  
Harry had thrown him out.  
  
Just as if I were a thing of no importance. A trash bag. I'm a trash bag and I have just been tossed out onto the curb. I am meaningless, thought Draco, utterly discouraged. He sank to the floor, crying silently, and did not notice Hermione walking to him and squeezing his hand sympathetically. 


	21. Chapter XXI

Author's Note: Okay. I have, like, three things to say, mainly. One of them is that I'm really truly sorry about the delay in getting this out, but my computer's been fucking up, and I was busy with exams.  
  
The second is, I'd like to know how many of you have livejournals, because I'd like to add some of you to my lj friends list (my lj username is _gutterbunny_ )  
  
The third is, where the hell did my earliest and most faithful reviewers go? Gwen, Fyrekun, SophieB and Mandraco, where the fuck are you guys? It's been a while since I've heard from you and I'm getting worried!  
  
By the way: I know that Blaise is a French boy's name. But it just suits a girl better in English.  
  
xox Gutterbunny  
  
* * *  
  
Thursday was the last day of the seventh year's final exams and very stressful for everybody. Lavender Brown was in tears, persuaded she had failed Charms (ironically, it was one of the few classes that she'd passed). Hermione, suffering from a bad case of nerves, hadn't eaten any breakfast, and that evening in the Common Room she curled up in an armchair and didn't speak a word to anybody, despite numerous pleas to join the party that a few sixth-years had started.  
  
"I can't," she said. "I'm too worried. Oh gosh, what if I failed Transfiguration? Oh, I'm sure I did, too."  
  
Their Transfiguration exam had consisted of turning various animals, supplied by Hagrid, into large household objects. Hermione had done it all perfectly until she'd gotten to the bear cub that had to be transformed into a wooden table; she had muddled up the words of the spell, and her table had ended up with four slightly furry legs. Her mistake was not a very important one, but Hermione mastered the art of turning molehills into mountains, and stressed over it until the people around her would have thrown sharp objects at her head if it would have gotten her to shut up.  
  
"Come on, Mione," said Ron, shouting to make his voice heard over the loud music, "you've won the record for Smartest Person in the Universe, do you honestly think you'd fail a class?"  
  
Hermione glared at him but said nothing, and Dean took advantage of that to put in his oar: "Besides, McGonnagall likes you; she'd prolly add a point here, a point there, until you got a passing grade. "  
  
"Don't joke about things like that! Don't -" and Hermione buried her face in a sofa cushion. When she looked up a few seconds later, she saw Ron dancing with Seamus; the two of them were tightly wrapped around each other. Seeing like that brought a smile to her face. "I wonder," she mused out loud, "do Mr. and Mrs. Weasley know that Ron's gay?"  
  
"No," said a voice, sounding as though its owner was positioned very close to Hermione's head.  
  
Hermione turned and saw Ginny perched on the chair's armrest. Judging by the pallor of her face and the dark circles under each blue eye, she hadn't gotten much sleep and hadn't an easy time with her own examinations.  
  
"They don't," said Ginny quietly. She sounded as though she had wanted to speak those words for a long time, but wasn't fully aware that she was speaking them. "But then again, nobody knows that much about Ron - not even Seamus. He's not too keen on opening up, Ron." Ginny's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she stared across the room at her brother.  
  
"I know Ron very well," said Hermione, a tad indignant.  
  
"No, you don't," Ginny contradicted. "Do you even know what kind of work he wants to do once he graduates?"  
  
"Well," said Hermione uncertainly, "I suppose he. I mean, I know that he wants to play Quidditch." The realisation that she wasn't certain came as a surprise; she hung her head, feeling ashamed, and wondering what was wrong with her - she had been Ron's best friend for seven years, had even dated him for a few months, yet she didn't know what kind of job he wanted.  
  
"You see," said Ginny with a smirk, proud over her small victory over the smartest witch in school.  
  
Hermione frowned pensively, thinking that Ginny was wrong, that she, Hermione, knew Ron very well, apart from that little slip-up concerning Ron's future career - and that the person she didn't know was in fact Ginny herself. She had always thought of Ginny as a naïve, insecure little girl - but now the little girl had grown up, seemingly overnight, and Hermione looked at her warily, as one might look at a potentially dangerous stranger in the street. Hermione hadn't given Ginny much thought tin the past two years. Did Ginny read books? Did she feel things and think things? Who was she friends with, and did she still have that silly crush on Harry?  
  
"Ginny," said Hermione, "what do you."  
  
She trailed off. Ginny was no longer sitting there. Hermione frowned, squinted around the room, and saw Ginny's small, shiny skirt disappearing in the crowd at the same time that she saw Harry walk through the portrait hall and skulk up the stairs.  
  
She frowned at him. She'd seen Draco that morning - their Houses had had their Transfiguration exam at the same time - and she sighed sadly as she remembered how the boy had looked. Eyes red-rimmed, face tearstained, shuffling his feet and staring, not at the people around him, but at the floor. His hair had been tangled and tousled; Draco had not taken the time to brush it out, which was a bad sign. Hermione's frown turned into a glare. Draco had had his heart trampled on, had been knocked down from the throne he'd occupied as resident sex god, had been reduced to nearly just desperate and sad another face in the crowd - and here was Harry on his high horse, going on about how he'd been terribly wronged and look what a bastard Malfoy is, locking himself up in his room and worrying everyone to death, not eating, not speaking.  
  
Hermione stood up suddenly and walked across the room and up the staircase, which targeted a disappointed cry from Ron - "she's gone to read a book or something! Aw crap!" She didn't realize how angry she was until she reached Harry's dorm door, and instead of turning the doorknob, she kicked it open.  
  
Harry, who had been enjoying a recently-borrowed library book ("How to commit bloody murder and get away with it" by Elias Slicendice) seemed quite startled. "Gee, Mione, you look pissed," he remarked, hastily slamming the book shut and shoving it in a desk drawer, hiding it from view. "Who're you mad at?"  
  
You," snapped Hermione, and before Harry could voice his surprise, she added, "you're really hurting Draco, and I hate you for it."  
  
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, looking like a fish on dry land. "What?" he spluttered, his eyes flashing behind his glasses, "you're on his side now?"  
  
"I'm not on -"  
  
"I thought you were my friend!"  
  
"I am! But that doesn't mean -"  
  
"If you were my friend," said Harry with an air of stubborn finality, "you'd support me one hundred percent."  
  
"NOT WHEN YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A JACKASS!" yelled Hermione. "AND BELIEVE ME, YOU ARE!"  
  
"OH, I AM, AM I?" Harry yelled back, very red in the face.  
  
"YES, YOU ARE -"  
  
A raspy noise issued from Hermione's throat; she clutched her neck, unable to yell any longer. "Just listen to me, okay?" she said softly, and without waiting for Harry's assent - or dissent - she sat on the bed next to him. "Look, everyone in Hogwarts who's old enough to know who Draco is, knows that Draco cheats. You know that -"  
  
"From experience," interrupted Harry loudly.  
  
"And you knew that when you started dating him," Hermione went on, "you knew quite well that there was a very strong chance that one night Draco would wake up next to somebody who wouldn't be you. You knew that it would happen."  
  
"So what?" said Harry sulkily.  
  
"So, you knew that one day or another he'd cheat. And that knowledge means you lose the right to whine like a little girl when he does." Hermione took a deep breath, hoping that Harry wouldn't explode - he was quite red in the face. "You've blown things way out of proportion."  
  
Harry had lost his vocal functions during her little speech, and now gaped at her, scratching a rash on his leg at the same time.  
  
"I'm sorry if I was blunt." Hermione sighed. "But I didn't know how else to put it, and I hate watching you act like such a prat."  
  
He muttered something under his breath that she couldn't quite understand. He looked as though he was struggling with all she had just told him.  
  
"Harry? Are you. all right?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I just - I know you meant well, so never mind. You look like you have something more to say."  
  
"Yes, I do, actually - that letter you found in Draco's dorm, the one from Fleur? You had absolutely no right to search his dorm. He deserves some privacy - and the least we all know about Draco's turbulent love-life, the better."  
  
"Maybe he deserves his privacy -" Harry stood up abruptly, and glowered down at her - "but does that mean I deserve this? Being cheated on and lied to and fooled by the one person who said over and over again that he loved me?"  
  
Hermione swallowed wetly and looked at the floor, sad and thoughtful. She didn't know how she'd react if Padma ever did something like that. She didn,t want to think about it.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Harry, feeling a twinge of something much like guilt, for a reason unknown to him. "It's been a bad week for everyone."  
  
"And you haven't made it easy on anyone by moping up here all the time. Everyone was so worried about you - and all the classes you skipped!" For a moment Hermione sounded like her old self, as though this was just another day and she was telling Harry off for not doing his homework.  
  
Harry smiled dryly.  
  
"Why don't you go down and join the partying?" Hermione suggested. "It might do you good to - dance it off a bit."  
  
"No, I don't think I will." He shook his head vigorously. "I think I'll stay here and. think about what you said."  
  
Hermione headed towards the door, and said, "I hope you do the right thing."  
  
"I will." Harry turned around to thank her, but she had gone.  
  
* * *  
  
Fleur, for her part, felt purely awful. The planets had aligned against her that week. On Tuesday she lost her job at the Ye Olde Sexe-Shoppe. She found work a few hours later, as a part-time bartendress at the Three Broomsticks, but Madam Rosmerta paid her half her old salary - just enough for Fleur and her owls to starve on. Her shift started at seven and ended in the wee hours of the morning; Fleur was not a night person and found the transition quite hard. Not to mention that mixing drinks could not, and would never, give her the feeling of mischievous, perverted delight that spread inside of her whenever she sold a whip or a collar to a young hormone-driven couple and imagined it being put to use.  
  
On Thursday the bar was nearly empty. Unusual, because, as the only bar in Hogsmeade that allowed underage students, the Three Broomsticks enjoyed a roaring trade. The emptiness worried Fleur, who wouldn't get any tips if there was nobody to tip her. She scanned the room, hoping and praying for a customer - just one - and saw a blonde-white head in a far, dark corner.  
  
"Hello," she called warmly, wanting to be friendly.  
  
The person turned toward her. Fleur smiled and blushed before she could stop herself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Ginny had quickly tired of the Gryffindor party - people whom she mostly didn't know, dancing to the type of music she had liked at age twelve, and stuffing themselves with the most disgusting food (Ron had somehow acquired three large bags of pickle-flavoured crisps). A walk around Hogsmeade would cool her heels.  
  
In the village she had run into Lavender. The seventh-year blonde was looking for a dress to wear to the graduation ball, which would take place Saturday night. (Sunday night they'd leave Hogwarts by train and be in London by Monday morning.) They had gone to Gladrags Wizardwear, where instead of the usual severe-looking robes, they found an assortment of coloured gowns, tuxedos, t-shirts and jeans. Muggle clothing had become more and more popular in the wizarding world.  
  
Lavender, true to form, had rushed to the rip-off section: clothes which were both ugly and expensive, clothes that were usually worn by old ladies and young witches with an odd resemblance to Britney Spears.  
  
"What d'you think of this one?" she asked Ginny, holding up a Lycra dress of a violent, bright purple.  
  
Ginny wondered what had made Lavender think that she was willing to become her fashion consultant. "Um, it doesn't really flatter your skin tone," she answered, and walked away quickly before Lavender could ask for any more advice. She sat down behind a rack of sleek black gowns made of silk - there was no risk of Lavender finding her here, as she never went for elegant clothing.  
  
Ginny fiddled with her shoe-lace and sighed. It seemed as though her life was almost abnormally complicated these days, and she found it deeply unfair that she was only sixteen and so confused about everything. Her self-confidence had taken a nosedive: the magic that the Veela had worked on her hair at the Hogsmeade salon had worn off, which meant that, once again, her tresses were shoulder-length and red, and her freckles were back and more obvious than ever. She had also gained three  
  
the counted, and became suddenly angry. Only last year had Fred and George begun to make some profits from their joke-shop. Before that, everything owned by a Weasley child was a hand-me-down, the Weasleys had saved every spare Knut - and they could have lived for a year on what Lavender was paying for a dress now.  
  
While the cashier struggled under the weight of dozens of Sickles, Ginny stood up, ran out of Gladrags, across the street and into the Three Broomsticks. A walk hadn't cooled her off, but surely a drink would. She ordered a Gillywater (a drink which contains no alcohol) and looked around for a place to sit down. The "kiddie bar", as the Three Broomsticks was often referred to, was very crowded. In fact, the only free seat left was across the room, at a table occupied only by Draco Malfoy.  
  
She took her drink and sat next to the Slytherin boy. Draco's nose was buried in his tankard.  
  
"Hey, Malfoy, what're you doing?" asked Ginny in a fakely cheerful tone.  
  
"Drowning my sorrows," Draco answered, turning his tearstained face towards her. He sounded as though his nose was stuffed. "I want to forget."  
  
Ginny peered into his tankard. It was filled with Butterbeer. "Well, then you'll need something stronger than that stuff," she said matter-of-factly.  
  
"Wanted to buy a redcurrant rum," added Draco, "but they wouldn't let me, they said I was under legal drinking age."  
  
"Are you?  
  
"Yeah, but it's not as though they never fell for it before. Hey, legal drinking age is eighteen, right?"  
  
"I guess," said Ginny. She turned around towards the bar, and saw that there was a single witch serving drinks. She was pretty hard to miss, with her short bright-yellow sundress and waves of blue-streaked blonde hair. "Who's 'they'?"  
  
"Ma'am Rosmerta," said Draco thickly, "and her boobs."  
  
"And her boobs?" repeated Ginny, wide-eyed  
  
"Damn things deserve their own zipcodes, they're so big." His voice was slurred. "See that painting over there, the huge one with a tankard and a bunch of bottles in it? Behind it is a bar that only adults can go in - the drinks are served by these lovely Veela." Draco gulped, sounding bitter: "But I forgot the password."  
  
"You know, you've only had Butterbeer, but you still seem drunk."  
  
Draco smiled at her and looked like his usual self. "I'm not that drunk," he said, in his normal voice. "I was just pulling your leg. But I did want a redcurrant rum to drown my sorrows in. It's just that. life's so weird, you know? And at times it seems that mine's weirder than most people's."  
  
Ginny acknowledged his life's weirdness with a nod. "You're the school prettyboy. You've got more beaus than you have uses for, and because of that you're inclined to cheat, which you did, and now your boyfriend's making a big deal out of it."  
  
"Wow," said Draco, half-admiringly, "you've just summed up my life in two sentences."  
  
Ginny grinned flippantly at him. "Bet you can't do the same for mine."  
  
Draco thought for a second, then told her: "You're the youngest of seven children and you're also the only girl, which means you'd do anything to get a place in the spotlight, and now one of your plans - probably involving a man of some sort - to grab attention backfired." He took a deep breath. "There, that was one sentence."  
  
Ginny laughed despite herself, and wondered with a smirk what Ron would do, say and think if he were to walk in and see them like this: Draco half- slumped over in his chair, clutching an empty tankard, and Ginny, with a big smile on her face, nearly sitting on the table. You can never be too sure of anything, she thought. I never dreamed I'd one day befriend Draco Malfoy, and here I am beginning to. She felt strangely comfortable in Draco's presence, perhaps because he gave her the feeling that she could ask him (almost) anything, and he would (try to) give her an honest answer.  
  
"Draco? Do you ever worry about. about you and Harry?"  
  
His little, twisted, half-drunken smile vanished, and his face took on a blank, bleak look. Ginny bit her tongue, praying with crossed fingers she hadn't offended him, but wanting an answer. She scanned his eyes for signs of anger; she found none, and this emboldened her enough for her to tap her fingers on the table in an imitation of impatience.  
  
When Draco answered, his voice was harsh and tinged with uncertainty. "What kind of worrying do you mean? Worried that I won't be able to win him over again? Oh, I will, don't you worry your little fire-engine head over that."  
  
Ginny took very little offence over the slur to her hair colour. "Of course you will," she agreed, with an almost inaudible touch of sarcasm. "But. what I mean is, you're graduating in three days. Harry wants to leave his aunt and uncle's house as soon as possible - I know because he told Ron - and it's unlikely he'll give you his new address so you can contact him. You only have three days. Are you worried about the deadline?"  
  
Draco hung his head, burying his nose in his tankard again. He looked as though he was giving up - on Harry, on himself and on the world in general - which elicited a raised eyebrow from Ginny, who had been half expecting him to tell her to fuck off, it's none of your business, Weasley, and since when do you care anyway? But Draco said nothing at first, and gave a sigh so great that it seemed to rack his spine.  
  
"Granger would give me his address. she would if I asked her nicely to."  
  
"You sound pretty doubtful."  
  
Draco's patience was now completely worn away by her constant worry- inducing questions. This was, after all, none of her business. "What's it to you?" he snapped. "Why are you so fucking curious all of a sudden?" It had suddenly occurred to him that there was a chance, however slight, that the female Weasley was going to tell all of this to the male Weasley later that night.  
  
".. sorry.." Ginny shrugged, looking sheepish. "I was just wondering."  
  
"Wonder about something else, okay?"  
  
Ginny raised another eyebrow at the pair of grey eyes that were glaring into hers. "And here I was thinking that maybe - just maybe - you were starting to become nice," she said, disgusted. "But I should have known you'd prove me wrong, Malfoy."  
  
She gave him a brief, angry, withering look before spinning on her heels and making for the door. Draco, watching her walk off into the steadily darkening evening, felt strangely impotent - not because there was anything wrong with his dick, but because he was so powerless to stop her. 


	22. Chapter XXII

SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TO POST THIS! IT WASN'T REALLY MY FAULT, THOUGH!  
  
I'd like you guys to do me a favour : I'd greatly appreciate your input on what should happen to the characters herein during the sequels of the story. I don't want to mislead you into thinking that C&B is a democracy, because I as the author am the only one who gets to decide what happens; but I'd still like to know what you'd like to see. Should Ginny die, or become gay, or what? What the hell should go on in Parvati's life? Should Hermione realize she made a silly mistake and run back to Terry Boot?  
  
If you have any ideas, please tell me, and you'll be rewarded with mucho brownie points and schnoogles from Canada @_@  
  
I'm glad SOMEONE has noticed has noticed that there used to be 23 chapters and there are only 21 now. No, I haven't been eliminating chapters. For everyone who wasn't curious enough to investigate: there was a REWRITE going on. The first four-five chapters have been fine-tuned and condensed into two better ones.  
  
Luv, Gutterbunny  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny was out by the lake, thinking about relationships - or, more precisely, she was wondering why all of hers had gone wrong. Was it her fault, or did she just have really bad taste in men?  
  
The first guy to ever ask her out had been Colin Creevey. On a blisteringly cold December morning in fourth year, he'd pulled her to a remote hallway and stammered out a hopeful request : "Ginny, would you g-go to the ball with me?" She'd said no because she was going with Harry. But when Harry left her stranded in a corner and danced away with Cho Chang, Ginny had consoled herself in Colin's skinny arms. He had two left feet, so they hadn't danced; instead they'd sat down on a stone bench outside, looking through the windows at all the happier couples spinning around the dance floor. Having grown up with six older brothers, Ginny was an expert on the flirting habits of young males and knew exactly what Colin planned to do: first he would yawn and pretend to stretch, and put an arm around her shoulders; then he would attempt to kiss her, and if that went well he'd gather up his courage and drag her off behind a rosebush.  
  
Colin did not surprise or disappoint her. Very soon Ginny felt his around her. He turned his face to hers, his breath blooming into icy clouds of spearmint, and he planted his lips very shyly on her mouth. Ginny had let him because she needed comforting and because she had nothing else to do.  
  
It hadn't been her first kiss, although she'd let Colin believe that because it gave him an ego boost and she figured he needed one. No, the first guy to ever give Ginny a real kiss had been Tom Riddle, in the Chamber of Secrets, when she'd been eleven. Ginny had always greatly exaggerated what had happened in the Chamber so that people would say "ohmygodpoorbravegirlhowonearthdidshesurvive?" But her time in the Chamber had been far from unpleasant. Tom had talked on and she hadn't really listened, just stared at him, because he was a foot taller than her and he radiated power and he was so beautiful - his face was traced with such fine lines, and his eyes shot steel-blue sparks - that it actually brought tears to her eyes to look at him, she who had until then only looked at her brothers. And just when she'd begun to feel uneasy - at Tom's rant on Mudbloods and Muggles - he'd sensed her discomfort and leaned down to kiss her, his lips feather-light and ever so soft. She had fainted from pure pleased shock, only to be awakened minutes later by Harry, to find Tom gone and herself bathing in blood.  
  
And later, because she was too young to fully grasp what had happened to her, she would congratulate Tom for his - gallantry? for whatever goodness inside him had let him leave it at just a kiss, because if he'd wanted more, she wouldn't have been in a position to stop him. Then she grew older and more cynical, and wondered if he'd really just kissed her out of gallantry and goodness, and not because he simply didn't find her attractive.  
  
Then there had been Ludo.  
  
Ginny flushed red as a beet when she thought of how silly and promiscuous she must have looked that day in the Three Broomsticks, flirting with a man twice as old as she - but despite the fact that he was old enough to be her father, he had not been immune to her charms, nor she to his. It had been a violent and potent attraction, and all the more exciting because they knew it would be shocking to anyone outside of it.  
  
Statutory rape, the courts called it - the American courts, the only ones that Ginny was concerned with - but she didn't think so. The affair had been good for her. It had made her more extroverted; she spent less time alone brooding behind locked doors, and laughed more. She was ashamed to think that she had let it all fritter away because Ludo had kissed Parvati - and perhaps Parvati had kissed him, Ginny didn't know. And besides, it was just a kiss, because if there had been more the admission would have slipped from Ludo's mouth in a fit of guilt. The fact that it was Parvati was also a slight comfort to Ginny, because Parvati was the resident sex goddess, the siren, the enchantress, whom women and men were equally in love with, Parvati who made perfectly healthy dogs start frothing at the mouth when she walked past. At least Ludo hadn't betrayed for just anyone.  
  
When Ludo had started to apologize (profusely) Ginny had turned away and pretended to hate him for what he had done, when in truth she was only annoyed - she'd wanted Ludo to learn his lesson well. But after a few weeks, annoyance turned into actual hatred and a lazy rage - and a deep- rooted malaise that churned constantly inside her gut. She ran away when she saw blond-haired men around her. She began to feel physically ill, as though all the guilt and fear she was supposed to have felt before were ganging up on her now, giving her cramps. Whenever she thought of the times they,d stumbled, naked and enthused, around his hotel room, sharp pain drove up her legs and in her stomach. And she wondered whether he'd actually loved her, and had she loved him, or had it been purely physical for both of them?  
  
"Maybe I over-reacted a bit," Ginny confessed to a particularly tall blade of grass beside her. "But it's too late to do anything about it now." She felt mildly afraid of this admission. Her own stubbornness had cost her a lover and a friend-mentor-sister - Parvati, to whom she hadn't spoken in two months. "I can't ask him back now, not after all my empty threats, and besides I don't think I want him back. Oh, I know how Harry feels about what Draco did."  
  
She sighed and looked around, and saw Blaise Zabini and Terry Boot rowing on the lake. How cute, she thought. And she repeated, "I know how Harry feels about what Draco did, but I know how Draco feels too, so I don't know whose side to take." With a deep, dragging sigh, she stretched out her limbs, lay down on the grass, and continued her monologue staring at the sky: "Maybe deep down I'm a lesbian. I mean, the only long-term effect men seem to have on me is that they make me numb. I don't think I've ever had a decent relationship with a man in my life. I know I'm only sixteen, but. Colin's love was always his camera. Neville only ever dated me because he couldn't find anyone else and neither could I. I'll never know if Ludo was attracted to me or my body or my age. and I have a feeling Viktor Krum only flirts with me to get to Hermione."  
  
A sudden burst of yells broke into her thoughts. Looking up, Ginny saw that Blaise Zabini had stood up in the boat, and was shouting herself hoarse at Terry, who was pleading frantically with her: "Blaise, sit down, sit down, you're rocking the boat."  
  
Annoyed at the interruption, Ginny rolled her eyes, and added- still addressing herself to the blade of grass: "But you never know, I might find my 'one true love' someday."  
  
"Talking to yourself, Gin? That's not a good sign."  
  
Ginny's beck snapped up. She found Harry standing before her, his hands in his pockets. He looked at her quizzically. How long has he been standing there? She hadn't heard any footsteps. How much did he hear? If word got out about her and Ludo. But as she stared up at him, that worry fled from her head. She had the strange sensation that was no longer in control of her own limbs. She leaped to her feet despite the fact that all she wanted at that moment was to loll around on the grass. She grabbed Harry by the shoulders.  
  
"Listen to me, Harry, all right? He loves you - Draco loves you! He just has funny ways to show it, and sometimes he makes mistake. It was a mistake, and you can't really blame him, because Fleur Delacour has that Veela magic working for her, and stronger men that Draco would fall for her. Take him back - forgive and be forgiven, you could be so happy if you did. don't make the same mistake I did."  
  
Harry seemed to be choking - with repressed fury. Ginny remembered how Harry's anger, when truly felt, tended to be explosive. She took a step back, and when he said nothing, she turned around and ran away, back to the castle, leaving the Boy who Lived to stare stupidly at a tree while the colour drained from his face.  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm so excited about Saturday. I can't sit still. Look, I'm wriggling my toes right now!. how about you?"  
  
"My toes are perfectly still, thank you for asking."  
  
"Silly! I mean, are you excited about graduation?"  
  
". Not really, no."  
  
"Don't tell me you'd rather stay here for the rest of your life?"  
  
"I like Hogwarts. It's safe and cozy. I wouldn't mind staying at a safe and cozy place. Does that mean I'm cowardly?"  
  
"No," Padma sighed, "that just means you must be going through a really weird phase. Aren't you the one who couldn't wait to get out into the real world and conquer the Ministry?"  
  
"Hey, I don't deal well with change."  
  
"Yeah, I really believe that," Padma snorted, and grabbed Hermione by the wrist, pulling her back. Hermione fell backwards onto the bed and into Padma's arms. Hermione's weight, coupled with the speed with which she fell, made Padma roll on her side on the bed, and her back hit the wall with a hollow thump.  
  
"Are you all right?" asked Hermione anxiously.  
  
"I've got you in my arms and you're clinging to me like a burr," said Padma mischievously. "I'm perfectly fine."  
  
Hermione turned a pretty shade of pink that suited her very well.  
  
"Heeey," said Padma suddenly, leaning her face toward Hermione's. "Could you in fact be worried that you might find someone smarter and better at magic than you are, out there? Is that what's on your mind?"  
  
"Don't try out your psychology shit on me, dear," said Hermione with a sweet smile.  
  
Padma opened her mouth to make a retort to that, but Hermione reached up and planted a kiss on her mouth. Padma grinned against Hermione's teeth and kissed her back. Hermione was kneading the back of Padma's neck with the tips of her fingers, and -  
  
"Girls, if you're doing anything you wouldn't want someone to walk in on, stop right now because I'm coming in!"  
  
Hermione cursed and pulled away, and Parvati entered Padma's room. She gave them a dazzling smile and a warm "Hi!" and ignored her sister's pointed glare. She lay down on the floor, stretching out her legs and fanning out her hair behind her. It looked like a smooth four-foot ebony train. "I'm going to outdo myself for this dance," she announced.  
  
"It's a ball," said Hermione, and was copiously ignored by the other two.  
  
"How're you planning to do that?" Padma enquired.  
  
"I've got the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, and the perfect hairstyle. I look heart-stoppingly beautiful when it's all put together."  
  
"I'm starting to fear that I'll look inadequate in comparison," said Hermione, and nobody paid attention to her this time either.  
  
Padma looked sour. "Yeah, you'll turn heads all right. I don't get why nobody ever looks twice at me. We're twins."  
  
"You just don't try hard enough."  
  
"Well, I'll make an effort this time."  
  
"I'm glad to hear that," said Parvati breezingly.  
  
"Now I'm starting to feel left out of his conversation," said Hermione, and she snapped her fingers in Padma's face.  
  
Parvati turned to her. "And what are you going to wear? Did you find a nice dress?"  
  
"Oh, no," said Hermione, "don't you start ragging on my appearance again." She held up her hands, crossed at the wrist and ring fingers in a hex sign to ward Parvati off.  
  
"I was just asking," said Parvati defensively.  
  
"Don't worry," Padma said to Hermione, "you always look beautiful." And with that she leaned forward and gave Hermione a very light kiss.  
  
"Stop that!" cried Parvati, seizing a pillow from the bed and throwing it at their heads.  
  
"Heeeeey," Padma pouted.  
  
"You have no idea how creepy it is to watch you two kiss - and DON'T call me homophobic. We're identical twins, Padma. so it looks like it's me down there making out with Hermione."  
  
"Why do I have the feeling I've heard that already?" said Padna at the same time as Hermione exclaimed, "We weren't making out!"  
  
"Never mind," said Parvati soothingly. "I'm sorry I said anything."  
  
"So am I," said Padma sadly. "That was on its way to being a really good kiss. I could tell."  
  
"Is Hermione a good kisser?" questioned Parvati with great curiosity.  
  
"Well," Padma began, "sometimes she - "  
  
"Could we talk about something else?" Hermione interrupted. "A nice, safe subject in which my tongue will not be mentioned?"  
  
"Mmm," said Padma with mock lasciviousness, "your tongue."  
  
Hermione turned scarlet and clapped her hand over Padma's mouth. Padma deviously licked her palm, and Hermione made an odd little clucking noise and let go. Parvati smiled indulgently at the two of them, then stood up, brushing invisible lint from her short-shorts. "Well, I'm going for a swim in the lake," she said. "See you later!" And she waltzed out of the room, her hair swishing behind her like mane, and left Padma and Hermione alone again.  
  
* * *  
  
The door to the seventh-year Gryffindor boys' dormitory was magically locked. Still, it seemed that the two people inside the room still feared that someone might suddenly barge in, because a barrage of furniture was packed against the door: two dressers, a desk, and five heavy wooden trunks.  
  
The two people in question were Seamus and Ron. Aside from magically re- arranging the furniture to protect their privacy, they had also pushed together three beds to have more room. Neville would have been horrified to know that Ron had moaned his way through three orgasms on his (Neville's) pillow, but as Seamus had said, "what he doesn't know won't nauseate him."  
  
And now the boys lay quiet, limp, strained and exhausted after having 'done it' - neither of them ever used the term 'to make love' - so many times in a row without a break. They were careful not to touch, because that might turn them on, and if they did get aroused they wouldn't be able to do anything about it because they were so tired.  
  
"Hey, Seamus?" said Ron curiously, "what do you see in me?"  
  
"Aside from your really huge - "  
  
"Nose?" Ron completed quickly. "I got it from my mother's side of the family."  
  
"You know I wasn't thinking about your nose," said Seamus, and he dragged his hand across Ron's chest.  
  
"Seamus, stop it. or you'll get me hard again."  
  
"You say that like it's a bad thing."  
  
"Do you ever think that our relationship is based solely on sex?"  
  
"Yes," said Seamus, "but it's very good sex, don't you think? I've taught you well."  
  
"Is it all you think about?"  
  
"I'm a teenager. What do you expect me to think about?"  
  
"I dunno." said Ron. "Quidditch?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Oh, Mr Team Captain," Seamus purred, "let me show you how handy I am with a broomstick."  
  
"Seamus! Stop that! Ohhhh - damn."  
  
"Well, now I've either got to fuck you, or transfigure this pillow into a wheelchair," Seamus observed, "because there's no way you could be able to walk with a hard-on that size."  
  
"Damn," said Ron again, glaring down at himself.  
  
"So which will it be?" asked Seamus quietly. "Fuck you, or." He licked Ron's earlobe, very, very slowly.  
  
"But we can't, not again - how long d'you reckon it'll be before Harry or Dean or Neville decide they want to come back into their dorms? They could unlock the doors, you know, they have wands."  
  
"Yeah, I was just thinking about their wands," said Seamus. "Dean could join in."  
  
"And we've got to clean all of this mess off the sheets." Ron added, ignoring Seamus' misguided attempt to be funny.  
  
"Why should we clean up? This place is crawling with house-elves."  
  
"I don't feel like having Dobby ogle at my sheets!"  
  
Seamus didn't even answer this time. He just pressed his palm flat against Ron's hip and kissed him, using a move, with his tongue, that he'd invented himself. Ron knew there was no hope of Seamus loosening his grip on him, and he stopped struggling, and settled himself into a comfortable position among the pillow. Seamus continued to exert himself by kissing and licking and whatnot, until neither of them could take it anymore and they moved on to more interesting things.  
  
* * *  
  
At four in the afternoon, a small sobbing someone careened inside Draco's bedroom and onto his bed, disturbing his thoughts. "What the fuck?" he said. And then, ".Blaise?" He stared uncertainly, unwilling to believe that this girl was his cousin, because crying was simply not among Blaise's habits.  
  
Blaise judged without reason and loathed without judgement; she sneered, swore, smirked and spat; she lashed out, made quasi-daily death threats, and sometimes attacked without warning; but she never, never cried. That she did so now shook the foundations of Draco's world. Tears dripped off the end of her chin, and her nose was red and shiny, as though there were tiny bulbs inside her nostrils. She drew in her breath through clenched teeth.  
  
"Whatever it is can't be that bad," Draco said as he patted her on the shoulder.  
  
"It is!" cried Blaise through her fingers. She buried her face in Draco's chest with fresh howls.  
  
"Maybe you could tell me about it?" Draco didn't know how to deal with this unexpected situation. The last time he had seen Blaise display any sort of emotion had been years ago, at her father's funeral.  
  
She sniffed and blew her nose on the grey satin bedsheets, which ordinarily would have enraged Draco; but he didn't even notice. He had just taken in his cousin's clothing. Blaise wore a blue tank top and a black denim skirt. Her hair was pulled into a shaky ponytail, and the heavy silver ankh that had hung from her neck for every day since she was eleven was gone. Her feet were bare. ".Blaise? Where did you get there clothes?"  
  
She lifted her eyes toward him. They were so full of fury that Draco felt apprehension creeping over his skin. Blaise in this state was likely to do something reckless and stupid and dangerous. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, not to much to comfort her than to restrain her.  
  
"I wanted to loom nice for him," she spat.  
  
So there was a he in this affair, whom Blaise was trying to impress? The plot thickens, thought Draco, and made a vague effort to remember if she'd ever spoken to him about a guy.  
  
"Because he w-wrote me, and s-s-said he would like to speak to me, so I went. But before I did I. I spent ten fucking minutes in front of the mirror wondering what I should wear. Oh gods, Draco, wh-what if I'm turning into one of those hags with big hair who gets her nails done every week, reads Witch Weekly and spends hours spending over the Sorciere Mode catalogue?!"  
  
"Rest assured, dear girl, you're not."  
  
Tears still streamed down Blaise's face, but at a much slower rate, and she was shaking now very lightly, like a leaf in a soft breeze instead of in a windstorm. She wrung her left pinkie finger mechanically and went on: "So I met him by the lake. We went rowing. In a boat."  
  
Something clicked in Draco's mind then. He recalled that when he had ventured out of his dormitory earlier that day, he had heard somebody - Lavender Brown, whose tongue could not be kept from waggling - whisper that 'that Zabini girl tried to drown Terry Boot today. Scandalous!' "Blaise? Who is he?"  
  
She ignored the question and said angrily: "He told me how he couldn't sleep and I thought it was because of me. Deprivation of sleep, caused by a girl, see? God, how vain is that?. then he told me how he'd gone for a walk during the night and found the mirror of Desire - Erised. HA! And he'd looked into it and seen - himself with - "  
  
"Somebody else?" said Draco gently.  
  
"WITH THAT BITCH, GRANGER!" Blaise screamed, leapt of the bed and to her feet, her eyes no longer wet but flaming, her fists clenched at her sides as though she was back in the rowboat facing Terry. Her ponytail came undone, spilling dark hair down her back and across her face. "I don't understand it. I'm at least as smart, at least as ambitious, at least as pretty - but he's not supposed to care about looks, he's not like that."  
  
"Guys are assholes," said Draco, thinking of his own guy - the raven-haired one, mooning in his tower.  
  
"I know." Blaise threw herself back onto the bed, frustrated and worn out. "I would worship the - the very boat he rowed in, if he'd let me. You know what's really pathetic, Draco? I was so happy to get in that boat. I was sure he'd kiss me. But he didn't. Nobody's ever kissed me before, on the mouth. Nearly eighteen years old and I've never been properly kissed." She dropped her eyes to the floor, as though ashamed of this admission, but then she looked right back up at Draco with an 'I dare you to make a smart- ass comment about that' look on her face.  
  
"Why not?" asked Draco. "I'd wager there are more than a few boys in Hogwarts who would have been willing to. deflower your lips. You may not believe me, Blaise, but you're not ugly."  
  
A small grimace twisted Blaise's mouth. It might have been a smile or an indication that she was about to melt into tears once more. "Perhaps they were, but I had them all scared shitless."  
  
Draco laughed as he remembered the foolish Hufflepuff boy who'd been daring enough to ask Blaise out during fifth year. She'd sent him back to his dorm with his self-confidence in tatters after threatening to rip off his nose and stuff it up his anus. "The Slytherin guys aren't scared of you," he pointed out.  
  
"They pretend they're not." Blaise scowled at Draco, obviously displeased with him for doubting her ability to frighten people. As it happened, Draco was right: Crabbe, Goyle and the rest arrogantly believed that Blaise, despite her constant threats, would not harm one of her own. "Besides, d'you really think I'd let a fat-assed, fish-lipped imbecile like Vincent paw at me?"  
  
"No," said Draco, "but then again I wouldn't have thought you'd be so broken up because a skinny-arsen, small-lipped imbecile like Terry Boot wouldn't paw at you."  
  
Sparks flew from the wand in Blaise's pocket. "How dare you say that?" she spat.  
  
Draco said nothing, made no apology. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away.  
  
"He's not an imbecile. He just doesn't know who he wants, yet."  
  
Draco tsked and put an arm around her in a fraternal way, and managed to pull her wand out of her pocket without her noticing. "Blaise, I hate to say this, but you're deluding yourself." He tried to look her in the face, but he couldn't sustain her gaze; it was like trying to stare down a beast, a wild one that could just lunge at you at any given moment. "Terry Boot knows who he wants. It's just not you."  
  
Blaise gaped at him, stricken, and said nothing. Draco steeled himself for the blow which was sure to come - one didn't simply say such a thing to Blaise and expect to escape unscathed. But no raging fist collided with his face. Blaise stood up and, still miraculously silent, she walked toward the door. When her fingers closed around the knob, she turned and hissed, "I should have known better than to ask you for advice. I should have know you'd say something stupid like that. I hope you die in your sleep."  
  
And the door slammed shut. Draco sighed and checked the carved black-marble wall clock: half past five. He slid off the bed and took off his creased robe, then slipped a clean one over his head and picked up his comb.  
  
Tonight he would go down to dinner, and surprise them all. * * *  
  
Only one chapter left until the end! Aren't you EXCITED?! 


	23. Chapter XXIII

Hey, everybody. This is the last chapter of Crash and Burn, and it's about twice as long as I usually make 'em. I'd like you to read it v-e-r-y slowly and enjoy it thoroughly.  
  
* * *  
  
On Saturday, the seventh years buzzed with excitement. The only subject of conversation was the graduation ceremony, which would take place that evening, and the dance-ball that would follow. Girls besieged common rooms and dormitories, turning them into makeshift beauty parlours. The males, forced out of their territories, flocked to the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer to solidify their nerves. Some resisted, however, and quarrelled with the girls, getting bruises for their pains. Even some of the younger students were caught up in the wave of enthusiasm: Colin Creevey had been hired by Dumbledore as the official photographer of the event, and spent two hours painstakingly polishing the lens of his biggest camera.  
  
In the Slytherin common room, Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, two of the only three discernible females of that house, sat preparing themselves for the dance. Their dresses were spread out on chairs beside them, and a fairly large table had been covered with jars and pots of various cosmetics, none of which could have done much to improve their looks.  
  
"This time tomorrow we'll be packing to leave this hell-hole," said Millicent. "Can't wait!"  
  
"And we'll be home for good this time," added Pansy. "I can't wait either. The guys in my neighbourhood are so hot - you know, you saw them last summer. not like this bunch of smelly, moss-covered apes."  
  
"Draco's hot," Millicent pointed out.  
  
"Draco's gay," snapped Pansy, and flushed.  
  
"Um. yeah. Yeah, he is." Millicent bit her lip. "Um. Pansy, are you okay?"  
  
Pansy's whole face was reddening, and as Millicent watched, water gathered at the corner of her eye and dribbled down her cheek.  
  
"I'm fucking fine," she snapped. "Milly, I know you're not the brightest of God's creatures, but even you should be smart enough to realize that it is not a good idea to talk to me about Draco!"  
  
"I'm sorry," said Millicent in a very small voice.  
  
Pansy would have liked to slap her across the head, but something close to pity stopped her hand from crashing down the top of Millicent's skull. She was Millicent's only friend; and even though the girl was a dull-witted, insensitive clod of a person, she and Millicent had spent all their schooldays and vacations together, and they were almost like sisters. Pansy couldn't possibly hit her; she decided instead to change the subject.  
  
"Isn't my dress fab?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah!" said Millicent, brightening up. "I was just thinking that! It's really great! You'll be the belle of the ball, for sure, and people will be tripping over each other trying to get close enough to you to ask you to dance! You'll look great in that dress! You look great in anything!"  
  
Her kind words were lies. Pansy had lost much weight - finding out that Draco swung the other way had depressed her, and for weeks, she had not bothered to eat more than necessary to keep her alive - but that was not enough; her facial features stood between her and genuine attractiveness. Pansy had large, far-apart eyes, brown, sparsely lashed and blank, a pink mouth shaped like a heart, and a ski-jump nose. Her features would not have looked so bad by themselves, but together they created a rather odd-looking face.  
  
"Thanks," said Pansy gratefully, always happy for a self-esteem booster.  
  
Somewhere in the room, somebody snorted, derisively and loudly.  
  
Millicent started, and whirled around indignantly; she stupidly thought each of her conversations important enough to deserve secrecy, and became furious when she discovered she'd been eavesdropped upon. "Who's there?" she barked.  
  
Pansy spotted a figure sitting in the corner of the room, but couldn't make out his or her face. She squinted, cursing the darkness - there were no windows in the dungeons.  
  
"It's me, for fuck's sake," said the figure.  
  
Pansy recognised the voice. "Blaise!" she exclaimed.  
  
"What were you snorting at?"  
  
"At you, because you just sound so stupid, and at all the shit that comes out of Bulstrode's mouth. Do you actually mean any of that shit, Bulstrode?"  
  
Pansy knew better than to take offence; Blaise had issues. She wisely sat back down, folded her hands in her lap, and said nothing. But Millicent had no such wisdom. "Oh, fuck off, you," she snapped. "You're the last person I want to see today."  
  
"Ooh, good comeback," laughed Blaise.  
  
"What are you doing there, anyway?" said Pansy. "Come here and let us beautify you," and she waved a powder puff beckoningly towards Blaise.  
  
"I'd rather die that let you put that shit on my face."  
  
"But don't you want to look pretty for the ball?"  
  
"She knows there's no hope of that," muttered Millicent, and she smirked. Pansy elbowed her in the ribs.  
  
"I personally don't give a flying fuck about the ball, or anything concerning it," said Blaise.  
  
"Are you going to wear a dress, at least?" asked Pansy. She was worried about what the answer might be. Blaise was known for showing up at black- tie events in ripped jeans and shirts with "I fuck dogs" emblazoned across the chest.  
  
"Yes," Blaise answered, looking as though the thought brought her no pleasure at all.  
  
Pansy breathed a sigh of relief. Millicent took it to be her task to continue the attack: "What colour?"  
  
"Black."  
  
"Black! But all of us were going to wear House colours!"  
  
"Millicent, fuck off, or you'll be going to the ball with a broken nose." Not one of Blaise's most intimidating threats, but an effective one nonetheless. Millicent glared, her hands on her hips, and backed down.  
  
"Oh, come on, Blaise," said Pansy softly. "All the Slytherins agreed to wear House colours."  
  
"Don't you know I'm a non-conformist?"  
  
"You're not a non-conformist, you're just a party-pooper," snapped Millicent.  
  
"Pouting is not a good idea for you, Bulstrode. It just shows off your fish- lips." Blaise smirked, and uncrossed her legs. "And besides, everyone's going to be wearing lime-green."  
  
"What's wrong with lime-green?" Millicent asked with a sideways glance toward her dress, which was exactly that colour.  
  
"You look like a tropical anaconda in that rag," said Blaise, "and you, Pansy, look like a disco ball in your dress."  
  
"Kind as always," said Pansy.  
  
Millicent was on the verge of saying something nasty, but at that moment Draco stepped in the room, causing a slight diversion. Pansy blushed turnip- red, and Blaise rolled her eyes at him. "About time you showed up," she told him.  
  
"Whatcha doing, Draco?" asked Millicent, giving him a sweet look.  
  
"Going out for a walk," said Draco.  
  
"In your boxers?" Millicent squealed.  
  
"Oh. My. God," went Pansy quietly, trying not to stare at Draco's smooth bare legs. It was the closest she'd ever gotten to seeing him naked.  
  
"And with whom are you going to walk?" Millicent gave Pansy a not-so-subtle nudge with her foot.  
  
"With me," said Blaise. She stood up and produced, from under the armchair's cushion, a wrinkled school robe, and passed it over Draco's head. Then she took him by the elbow and led him out of the room and into the hallway; he made no protest at all. Not until they were out on the grounds did Blaise speak again. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You don't wear boxers."  
  
Draco shrugged.  
  
"So. what are your plans for this summer?" asked Blaise. She knew the question was useless; Draco never made any plans, not of that sort. But even a stupid question was better than awkward silence.  
  
"Go home, go clubbing, and fondle few pool boys."  
  
"Really?" said Blaise.  
  
"No. I think actually I'll go home, get drunk every night and wank under my bedcovers while dreaming of lost loves."  
  
"Damn," Blaise spat. "I thought you were finally getting over Potter."  
  
"I don't think I ever could," said Draco, and he added, "I don't think I want to."  
  
Blaise scoffed. "You'd rather spend your life pining after an idiot, wouldn't you?"  
  
"He's not an idiot. Why don't you like him?"  
  
"He's a spineless do-gooder. What on earth made you fall in love with him?"  
  
"I didn't even mean to, you know. I didn't even mean to." Draco shrugged again. "That's a hard question to answer, you know. Little things, I guess, that would seem silly to you. like the way his skin always smells of lavender and grass, or how his eyes reflect every single thing he looks at, and turns it green - I don't look half bad with green skin, you know - or how he always blushes when you tell him you love him, or that he's beautiful." He took a deep breath. "What made you fall in love with the Bootboy?"  
  
"I can't even remember," said Blaise, "and it's useless now, anyway."  
  
"Yes, I suppose it is. He's an idiot, you know - he'll never know what he missed out on."  
  
Blaise snorted, and her head sank between her shoulders.  
  
"What are your plans for this summer?" asked Draco. "Going to do anything major to celebrate your graduation?"  
  
"Stupid question. You know me. The only thing I'm planning to do is get to your place as soon as possible."  
  
"That should be pretty soon indeed," remarked Draco. "All you have to do is get in the Malfoy carriage with me at King's Cross."  
  
"No, I can't, my mother wrote and in-sis-ted I spend time with her first." Blaise made a face. "She's rented a cottage somewhere in the countryside - a wizarding cottage, isn't it pathetic how she's trying to make friends now? - and she wants me to spend a month there with her. She wants to have enough time to brag to all her friends that her daughter just graduated, without actually telling them where I graduated from."  
  
"But why will that be so horrible, exactly? You always make things seem worse than they actually are."  
  
"She said in her letter that she's looking forward to shopping with me," said Blaise. "Doesn't that prove that she doesn't know me at all?"  
  
"What's she planning to buy you?" said Draco with great interest. "Girly things?" His eyes sparkled.  
  
"Shut up," said Blaise.  
  
"I was just asking," said Draco, sounding offended.  
  
"And she gave me directions to the cottage in her letter, because she can't be bothered to come pick me up at the train station," muttered Blaise. "People like her should not be allowed to breed."  
  
"That's a bit harsh - don't be so hard on her. She's your mother, after all. She - gave birth to you."  
  
"And that was the biggest mistake she made in her life! She didn't want me. She paid as little attention to me as you would to - to an ant on the floor of your room. When she and Father divorced she said to him, 'I hope you don't think she'll live with me'. I heard her say that - I was listening at the door. imagine how you'd feel if you'd heard your mother say that when you were six," said Blaise. "And when - when Father died, she sent me to live with you. I haven't actually seen her for two years. And you think I'm being hard on her?"  
  
"She's obviously trying to make up for it now," Draco pointed out. "She wants to get to know you."  
  
"Nobody should have to get to know their child." Blaise took a deep breath. "I am the product of two people who used a faulty condom."  
  
Draco had no reply for that, because he felt Blaise was right, and so he said nothing. Blaise pursed her lips and seemed quite unwilling to say any more. They walked in circles around the lake. Blaise pulled out her wand and idly cursed a few skinny-dipping students. Shrieks of "OH MY GOD, WHERE DID IT GO?!" and "Eww - um, was that there when you took your clothes off?" filled the air.  
  
"That was unnecessary," smirked Draco. "But highly amusing."  
  
"An d that was the highlight of my day so far," said Blaise. "Pathetic, isn't it?"  
  
"Now you're being hard on yourself," Draco told her. He paused a perfect beat, then added, "It's not like you ever do anything more interesting!"  
  
"Now you're begging to be punched," Blaise said.  
  
"Ohhh, you wouldn't do that and ruin my face, would you?"  
  
Blaise mock-glared at him. There was another lull in the conversation, during which Draco began to whistle, and stopped when Blaise smacked him on the head. Finally Draco said, "Are you worried about tonight?"  
  
"What, the dance?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Not at all."  
  
Draco sighed. "Blaise, hon, you're a very good liar, but you can't fool me."  
  
"I can't?"  
  
"I can tell you're quaking in your leather boots with fear."  
  
"I'm only wearing socks," Blaise pointed out.  
  
"Whatever." Draco waved his hand through the air.  
  
"I just don't see why I should even go, since I won't be dancing with anybody, and there won't be anyone worth talking to."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What do you mean, why? 'Cause they're all idiots!"  
  
"No, I mean why won't you be dancing with anyone?"  
  
You know very well nobody will want to dance with me, you prat, so why are you asking? Blaise thought, and then, inexplicably, she felt a twinge of sadness when faced with her own unpopularity. "It doesn't matter," she said. "I'll show up, get my diploma, and crawl back to the dungeons."  
  
Pause.  
  
"My mother wants me to wear the dress she had on at her Sweet Sixteen birthday party," Blaise said quickly.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Yes. Is that not ridiculous? It's blue and frilly."  
  
"Um. It's been two years since your mother saw you in person, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Does she remember what you look like?"  
  
"Probably not," said Blaise, and she kicked the ground angrily, sending grass flying.  
  
"I think you should give your mother a try," said Draco. "And if you don't like her, leave."  
  
"What pisses me off the most," said Blaise, "is how whenever she has to fill in school forms she writes my name as 'Blaise Zabini'. By all rights it should be 'Blaise Malfoy'."  
  
"You're disowning your own mother?"  
  
"No, just her stupid last name," said Blaise. "And she should be going by 'Malfoy' too."  
  
"But if she did you'd hate her for using your last name, and say she's doing it to move up in the world," said Draco wisely.  
  
"Yes, of course I would," said Blaise, "but I'd admire her intelligence." She sighed again, very deeply, as though she was trying to drag all the air out of her lungs. "Draco, I really don't feel like talking about this anymore."  
  
"Alright," said Draco. "Are you going to keep walking? I'm going back."  
  
Blaise shrugged. "Go if you want to," she said, and just stayed there, looking stony. As she watched Draco retreat to the castle, she wondered bitterly at the back of her mind what would become of him, what would become of them both.  
  
* * *  
  
"I can't go out like this!"  
  
"You can and you will. I haven't spent hours trying to make you look decent for nothing." Draco laughed. "Come, Blaise, you look stunning."  
  
"This isn't me," Blaise said. She stared at her reflection. The girl in the mirror wore a strapless gown of black taffeta that rustled with her every movement. Around her waist she had a belt made of small jade snakes with their tails twisted together. Her dark brown hair was elegantly swept up, and there was a black velvet rose behind one ear. Her lips were magically reddened.  
  
Behind this girl-who-was-not-her, she could see Draco grinning with pride. "You'll blow people away," he said.  
  
"It's too tight." Blaise squeezed a fistful of taffeta.  
  
"It's just fine."  
  
"Draco, I can't."  
  
He gripped her by the elbow and pulled her toward the door. "Are you afraid?" he taunted. That strategy always worked on Blaise.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Then what are you waiting for?" said Draco, with a falsely sweet look.  
  
Blaise glared fiercely at him, and followed him out of the room and down the stairs into the Slytherin common room. There were three or four people there, including Crabbe, who rushed toward them as soon as he saw them. "Malfoy, hello," he said, his sycophantic voice respectful. He turned to Blaise. "And who is this beautiful lady?"  
  
Draco opened his mouth to congratulate Crabbe on his smooth line, when he realized that the fat boy had actually failed to recognize Blaise. He tightened his grip on her elbow, fighting back a chuckle, and replied solemnly, "Prunella Sutton, Ravenclaw."  
  
"Charmed," said Crabbe, bowing in a penguin-like way.  
  
Blaise nodded demurely, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Crabbe bobbed away.  
  
"Well," said Draco, "I have the feeling this is going to be a very interesting night."  
  
* * *  
  
Parvati studied herself in the mirror. She turned around to se herself from the back, raising a critical eyebrow at her reflection. She looked like a queen in her silk dress, a soft, airy creation the colour of the flesh of ripe black cherries. Its bodice was quite tight and had vines embroidered on in tiny ebony beads. Her hair now undulated over her shoulders and down her back - it was naturally curly, like her sister's, but she straightened it magically, out of vanity. She wore a small necklace made of alternating garnet and ebony beads, with a matching bracelet on her right hand, and lacy gloves that matched her dress.  
  
"Damn, I look good," she said, and laughed to herself. "It's too bad I'm going alone." Fuck you, Terry Boot, she added mentally to the boy that had actually had the nerve to turn her down when she'd told him he was taking her to the ball.  
  
"Maybe it's better," said Hermione, who had helped her get ready. "You can dance with anyone you like and not feel bad about ignoring your date."  
  
"I wouldn't feel bad anyway," said Parvati brazenly, running her hands across her flat stomach.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes.  
  
Parvati turned to her and grinned in a proud, almost motherly way. Hermione's almost surprising good looks at that moment were due in large part to Parvati, who had helped her find the dress, picked out the shoes, and styled her hair. "You don't look half-bad yourself, Mione," she said.  
  
The Head Girl wore a blue-gray dress with a square neckline and very cute, small puffed sleeves. A spherical opal hung from a silver chain around her neck. Her now-straight hair was magicked into a chignon with a blue ribbon artfully twisted through it. "Thanks," she said. "I rather like it myself."  
  
"I wonder why I never noticed how pretty you really are. Why nobody ever did."  
  
"You outshone everyone." Hermione trailed off and stared at Parvati's shoes. "My god, Parv. Those are three-inch heels."  
  
"So?"  
  
"You're six foot two, and you wear three-inch heels? Are you never uncomfortable, being so tall?"  
  
"No," said Parvati with a smirk, "I like towering over people."  
  
"Yeah, I reckon you use it as an excuse to look down on them."  
  
Parvati narrowed her eyes, then realized that Hermione's comment was not meant as an insult, and smiled. "You're a mere peasant, you with your five foot seven. Now come on. Padma will be waiting for you." She swept out of the room, and Hermione, after taking a deep breath, followed her.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny was sitting on a windowsill in her room, with one leg tucked under her and the other hanging over the ledge. She found this position very comfortable and conducive to deep thinking - although she wasn't doing much of that at the moment. She was staring at the darkening evening sky, counting the stars and smoking. (The teachers, Filch and Mrs Norris were all at the seventh-years' ball, the latter two strolling the gardens to make sure that the wandering couples didn't have too much fun in the rosebushes, so she wasn't worried about getting caught.)  
  
Her mind was wonderfully blank. When her eyes got too tired to focus on the stars, she turned her gaze to the smoldering end of her cigarette. She blew a particularly good smoke ring, then leaning back to look at it, feeling very satisfied with herself. It was great to sit there, her mind empty, so light that a simple smoke ring made her happy. She wondered briefly if she felt that way because the smoke had made her high, then decided that was probably improbable.  
  
She'd always felt waves of almost childish joy overcome her at the end of every school year, combined with anticipation of the summer holiday. This time, though, it wasn't the same. The prospect of another summer at the Burrow disenchanted her. Nothing ever changed at the Burrow. Oh, sure, now that Fred and George were bringing in a little money, the house had been renovated and 'improved' - there were some extra rooms, better furnishings and far fewer garden gnomes - but everything had basically remained the same.  
  
It stagnates, thought Ginny, and blew smoke through her nose. I don't want to stagnate. Maybe her parents would take them all on a cruise or something like that, now that they could afford it? I want some variety. She had changed so much herself, partly without knowing it, that she felt justified in wishing for a different setting.  
  
She sighed and looked down. She could see part of the rose garden, and closer beneath her, a window of the Great Hall, and a corner of the fluttering silken Hufflepuff banner. Ginny ground her cigarette butt on the ledge and tossed it out the window.  
  
Things will change, she thought. Next year there wouldn't be any big brother to keep an eye on her. She would be able to get into trouble if she wanted to - and Colin Creevey, in love with her since first year, would most certainly try to seduce her since Ron wouldn't be there to dissuade him with his fist. "Well," said Ginny aloud, "at least my life won't be dull. I wonder if Colin's still a virgin?"  
  
* * *  
  
Blaise stood in the middle of the Great Hall and watched the people mulling around her. They weren't that many - only forty students were to graduate that night - but it felt to her like the room was full. This made her very ill at ease. She tightened her grip on Draco's arm.  
  
"Hey, easy there," he said. "You know I bruise easily."  
  
"Sorry," said Blaise dully.  
  
"Sh-shall I take your picture?" came a squeaky voice from behind them.  
  
Blaise whirled around to face a boy with golden hair and brown eyes that looked rather frightened. "Colin Creevey," she sneered.  
  
"Well?" Colin raised his camera.  
  
"You'd better not," advised Draco. He could tell that Blaise was in a foul mood.  
  
"But please, it's for the Seventh Years' Book," said the boy. He sounder like a door-to-door salesman trying to get them to buy something completely useless.  
  
Blaise's eyes had a dangerous glint in them. "Listen to me, Creevey," she hissed. "You get away from me right now or I'll take that camera and smash it to pieces on the floor, you little wanker!"  
  
Colin's eyes went as round as marbles. He gave a scared sort of squeak, spun around, and ran.  
  
"That was fast," said Draco appreciatively. He fiddled with his black tie, and then with the grey pearl buttons on his shirt, which was ash-coloured with silver pinstripes. His trousers were tight black silk, his shoes polished black leather. Not a single gold-white hair was out of place. "Blaise, you don't mind staying here by yourself, do you? I've got some. business to take care of."  
  
"Not at all," Blaise lied. She watched him go, watched his shoulders sway as he walked, and wished him luck, for she knew what his business was.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione spotted Padma at the foot of the stairs as she was walking down to the Great Hall; and when she did, her breath caught in her throat, and she froze in mid-movement with her foot hovering above a stair-step.  
  
When Padma deliberately spent time in front of a mirror, the result was amazing. Her beauty shone all the more brightly because she didn't try to look this good every day. She looked like a goddess from pagan times in her dress. It was of sea-green muslin, with the six inches above the hemline in a darker green, with impossibly tiny trees and doves (that flew) embroidered on in golden thread. Thin straps crisscrossed Padma's shoulders and back. She wore a necklace of emeralds on a gold chain. Her hair was pulled back in a style that was half French braid, half plain bun, with two or three locks that escaped and curled around her face; the result was very fetching.  
  
Hermione could have stood there, entranced, for eternity, if Padma hadn't looked up, spotted her, and jumped up the stairs in her usual lively way. "There you are! I've been waiting ages!" A small gasp. "Mione. you look beautiful."  
  
"You look pretty amazing yourself," said Hermione. She remembered Padma saying she would try to look at least as good as her twin, and added, "Better than anyone."  
  
"Come on," said Padma, clasping Hermione's hand. "Let's go down."  
  
They found Parvati in a corner, nibbling on a square of Honeydukes chocolate (she had taken off her gloves). Three or four young men were already bobbing around her, but she didn't notice them; she appeared to be concentrating very hard on someone across the room.  
  
"Who're you staring at?" asked Padma curiously.  
  
"Oh - Professor Snape." Parvati motioned toward him with a wave of her hand. "He does look quite good with his hair washed, doesn't he?"  
  
Hermione's eyebrows shot straight up.  
  
"I think I'll ask him to dance," Parvati continued.  
  
"What? Oh - Parv! You can't!" spluttered Padma.  
  
"Do you dare me?" demanded her sister archly.  
  
Hermione, who knew that Parvati only needed a dare to do the craziest things, shook her head vigorously. "No."  
  
"Then I dare myself," said Parvati smoothly, and she walked away before they could stop her.  
  
"Oh gods," said Hermione.  
  
Padma locked her arm around Hermione's waist and laughed. "This is going to be a very interesting night," she predicted, just as Draco had. They watched as Parvati cornered Snape and said something to him that made him jump through the air and shout out. At that moment the band started playing, and Parvati grabbed the Potions master's arm and pulled him to her. He struggled with her at first, then realized she was not going to let go anytime soon, and resignedly tried to imitate her dance moves.  
  
"How 'bout we dance too?" Padma suggested.  
  
Hermione felt her heart skip. "Sure," she said. As the music quickened, she let herself be pulled into Padma's arms, she wondered when she'd last felt so warm and peaceful and at home.  
  
* * *  
  
The band began a slow song. Seamus offered his hand to Ron. "Wanna dance?"  
  
"Sure," said Ron. In truth he didn't want to, but he knew that if he declined, Seamus would run off and find someone else to dance with, and then he would be left alone. It wasn't much of a choice in his eyes.  
  
Seamus danced with his face buried in Ron's neck and shoulders, his eyes closed. Ron closed his too, but every now and then they would flutter open, and each time he saw the same thing, the same couple dancing: Hermione and Padma. Both of them were smiling, and every few seconds one would lean toward the other and whisper something in her ear, and they would laugh and kiss. That's how happy, in-love people should dance, thought Ron, and seeing it made in even clearer to him that that was not how he and Seamus danced.  
  
The band was halfway through the song when Ron decided he'd had enough. He took Seamus' hand and pulled him into a corner of the Hall. Seamus, obviously thinking that Ron was leading him away so that they could snog, grinned brightly. "So soon?" he quipped.  
  
"Oh, Seamus," said Ron. If you only knew. "Listen. Um. I really don't think it's working between us."  
  
For a full ten seconds - very long, horrible, anxious seconds - Seamus said nothing. Then he asked, "Have you been seeing someone else behind my back?"  
  
"What? NO!"  
  
"That's what was going on the last time you dumped somebody." Seamus took a slow breath. "Could you explain it to me, then, if that's not it?"  
  
"I loved you at first, I really did," said Ron, choosing his words carefully. "But now - now it seems like it's all about sex. We never talk." Seamus dropped his head and pursed his rosy lips. Ron felt awful, as though he'd just been wrung like a piece of wet clothing. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I suppose it's for the best."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I. well, all the other guys I was with understood that it was a game, that we were both in it for the fun. But you always seemed to be looking for Mr Right, and I knew I probably was not him." Seamus raised his head. His eyes were damp. "I loved you too, you know."  
  
"So I guess it's over, then?"  
  
"Yes," said Seamus. "But let's still be friends, okay? You're an okay guy." He gave a lopsided laugh, then reached up and kissed Ron on the mouth. The kiss had a very final taste to it, and when it was over, Seamus took a step back, smiled, then turned around and walked away. Ron watched him go, knowing he couldn't stop him, not wanting to, and felt very relieved.  
  
* * *  
  
As Blaise kicked her way through the crowd to get to one of the tray- bearing house-elves, she felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned around. There, in front of her, looking dashing and pale in ultramarine dress robes, was Terry Boot - and he hadn't removed his finger from her bare shoulder. She nearly gasped; the light pressure of his fingertip on her skin was sending lightning down her arms.  
  
"Blaise," he said. "I've been thinking." She turned away sulkily, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back. "I'm infinitely sorry I was such a jerk. I realized there's nothing I can do to get Hermione back and. well, once again I'm sorry. Would you like to dance?"  
  
Disbelief seeped through her. "You unbelievable bastard."  
  
"What?" said Terry. Clearly that was not the reaction he'd expected.  
  
"You finally get it through your thick, stupid head that Granger will never come back to you - so you run back to me? You condescend to dance with me? Fuck off! I'll not be anyone's second choice, Terry Boot!" She reached up and slapped him soundly, then whipped around, her voluminous skirt swirling round her legs. She was gone before he could stop her or even speak.  
  
* * *  
  
Draco left the Great Hall, crossed the rose garden, and walked on until he came to the edge of the Forest, where the trees were young and harmless. He could see a small man-shaped shadow some way in front of him; the person casting it was sitting cross-legged with his back against a tree.  
  
"Harry?" Draco called. "Will you talk with me?"  
  
Silence, a sigh, then: "I have nothing to say to you, Draco."  
  
"Then just listen." Draco swallowed dryly, then exploded: "I'M SORRY. I'm sorry I stood you up that night, I'm sorry I slept with Fleur, I'm sorry I ever looked at Fleur, I'm sorry I didn't try harder, I'm sorry for every mean and hurtful thing I ever did to you."  
  
Harry looked up sharply. He was not wearing his specs, and without them his eyes were cold and unreadable. "Are you sorry you fell in love with me?"  
  
"Are you?" asked Draco quietly.  
  
"Why should I believe any of the things you just said? You're not exactly Mr Credibility."  
  
Draco sat down next to him. "Some things you just take on faith."  
  
"Not things like this," said Harry, and there was an urgency in his voice. "Not when you've already been burned."  
  
"Try to understand. Every second of every day for the past two weeks I've had this burning, searing feeling in my gut, and my lungs contract and I can't breath, and it's like I have images of you engraved on my eyelids, because you're all I see when I close my eyes, you and I together. do you know how heavy that makes you feel after just a day?"  
  
"No," Harry lied. He wondered why he was doing this to Draco - to himself as well, because he wanted nothing more than to let himself melt it Draco's arms. Why couldn't he just give in? Perhaps he wanted Draco to suffer ("to get revenge, or prove a point") or perhaps he still wasn't sure if the boy's apologies were heartfelt. He did not move, although his body was aching, and stayed on the warm grass. Rough bark was digging in his back, and that brought back certain memories (of Draco pushing him again trees, or the two of them marking their initials on an old oak) that weren't very helpful.  
  
"Harry, please," Draco whispered. His voice broke on the last word.  
  
"You told me that Malfoys never beg. Not even for their lives."  
  
"What I have at stake here is bigger than my life," said Draco in a quiet, tearful tone.  
  
"What is that?"  
  
"Happiness. Hope," said Draco, and he looked at Harry in a way that showed he thought Harry was the only one who could give him those feelings. But Harry made no answer, and Draco, as he stared into those cool green eyes, felt that last shred of hope fly from him. There was nothing more he could do; he had lost Harry - and so soon after his epiphany, after he'd realized his love for Harry was true and bigger than both of them.  
  
Harry watched him steadily. He saw a silver tear fall, like a drop of mercury, onto the grass, before Draco hugged his legs to his chest. He was ten centimeters taller than Harry, but at that moment he looked like a brokenhearted child - defeated, battered, and utterly endearing. Harry crawled toward him and wrapped him in his arms, hugging him so tightly that neither of them could breathe at first. Draco gave a jagged, disbelieving gasp. Harry could feel his hot tears slipping down the front of his dress robes.  
* * *  
  
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And now back to Crash and Burn, chapter twenty-three.  
* * *  
  
Ginny had watched the whole Harry-Draco scene from her window. "Awww," she cooed when they hugged, and smiled as she lit another cigarette. She had hoped things would end like that, because she didn't know anybody who deserved a happy life more than Harry. (And perhaps Draco deserved one too, after everything.)  
  
A sudden movement at the edge of her vision made Ginny turn her head. She saw Crookshanks emerging from a shrub, and frowned - she was sure she'd seen a human figure. She looked again.  
  
There it was! A tall, cloaked Somebody was walking slowly away from the trees and towards the two boys, who were about one hundred feet away. A mysterious hooded person skulking along the Forbidden Forest at night. This is just like the opening scene in a bad Muggle movie, thought Ginny, who had seen her share of those when Harry had introduced the Weasleys to television two years before. Thinking quickly, she looked around and spotted a broomstick. It wasn't hers, but that didn't matter - she grabbed it, threw a leg over it, and jumped out the window, sailing through the air and making a neat stop two feet away from the Person.  
  
"Right, then," she said, greatly comforted by the wand in her back pocket. "Mind telling me what your business here is?"  
  
Two white hands slipped out from the folds of the cloak and pulled the hood back.  
  
It was Fleur Delacour.  
  
"I 'ave come," she said, "to speak to Dray-co."  
  
Ginny was taken aback. She craned her neck and saw that the two boys were still clinging madly to each other. "I doubt Draco would want to talk to you right now," she said. "Or ever, for that matter."  
  
"I must see him. I must apologize."  
  
Ginny knew that if Harry saw Fleur, it would completely ruin things between him and Draco again, and that there would be no other chance. "Have you no tact at all? Can't you see he's busy?"  
  
"But I must," said Fleur again. "I must apologize. You 'ave no idea what it's like to know so much pain has been caused by your hand."  
  
"By your cunt, more likely," muttered Ginny. "And I suppose you know a good deal about causing pain?" she went on in her normal voice. "Like you did to Bill?"  
  
Fleur looked puzzled.  
  
"You utter tart!" Ginny exclaimed. "My brother Bill, whom you dated for almost a year and then dumped for o reason?"  
  
"Oh, I had reasons," said Fleur quietly.  
  
"I'm sure I'd like to know what they are."  
  
Fleur looked at her with obvious dislike. "There are some tings you don't understand, Geeny," she said condescendingly.  
  
Ginny hated being condescended to. She brought her hand down on Fleur's face, hard. Fleur squeaked indignantly and kicked Ginny in the shin. Within seconds they were wrestling about on the ground. At first Ginny thought she might win the fight, because she had the kind of experience that can only come from growing up with six brothers; but Fleur was taller and had longer limbs, and soon she had Ginny pinned to the ground with a wand jammed into her throat.  
  
"Now," she said. "If you'll be a quiet leetle girl, maybe I'll turn you into a nice sort of slug."  
  
Then a voice floated down to them: "Girls! Are you brawling?" They looked up to find Parvati Patil standing over them, looking surprised, amused and annoyed all at once.  
  
Fleur turned her wand to Parvati. "Get away, you," she snapped.  
  
"Me?" said Parvati regally. "I'm not the one who's trespassing."  
  
"Get lost!"  
  
And for a moment it looked like Parvati was retreating, but Ginny saw that she had only brought her foot back; and when Fleur smirked, Parvati swung in forward again and kicked her hard in the ribs. The Veela girl rolled off of Ginny, who acted quickly and pinned her to the ground. Parvati seized Fleur's wand. "Now," she said, still in that cool, regal tone, "get your nasty, silicone-filled self away from me."  
  
"Silicone?" Fleur gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, no, no, no. Zey are real, and zey are bigger zan yours."  
  
Ginny's eyes widened in shock to see that someone could speak that way to Parvati Patil, whom everyone agreed was the most beautiful, self-possessed, sought-after girl to grace Hogwarts' hallways since Narcissa Malfoy. Parvati herself merely snorted. "Yes, and they make you look like a third- rate streetwalker."  
  
"You say that," Fleur told her, "but it is out of jealousy. 'Ow long 'as it been since anyone kissed you?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up," said Ginny angrily. She took her own wand out of her pocket and jabbed it into Fleur's sternum.  
  
Wandless, weakened and in the company of two girls who seemed ready to tear her lungs out, Fleur decided that best course of action would be to flee. "Zis is not over," she warned threateningly - and the next second, she was nearly gone; all that could be seen of her was the hem of her cloak as it fluttered between trees.  
  
"Good riddance," said Parvati darkly.  
  
"Yeah," said Ginny. "Um. Hey, thanks for helping me out here. I have a feeling she'd've given me a good thrashing if you hadn't shown up."  
  
Parvati looked at her for what felt like a long time, her black eyes velvet- soft. Then she said, "He was all wrong for you, you know."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"That Bagman fellow," said Parvati, and Ginny turned paper-white. "I suppose he was the one who sent you all those jewels? How clichéd. I don't know what you could have possibly seen in him - unless it was the money?'  
  
"No! Of course not!"  
  
"Come now, I wouldn't judge you for that - I could never marry a pauper."  
  
"It was not the money."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"He made me feel like I was important," said Ginny slowly, flushing. "Special. And for myself, too, not because I was Arthur's daughter or Fred and George's sister. It was just me - and I was enough."  
  
"Apparently not," said Parvati.  
  
"You wouldn't understand."  
  
"I did you a favour, you know. Sooner or later things would have turned sour between you."  
  
"I'd really rather not talk about him."  
  
"Alright," said Parvati. "I should be getting back to the ball." She turned around, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and walked off toward the light and the music, leaving in her wake a very confused Ginny to sort out her thoughts.  
  
* * *  
  
Blaise had been sulking in a small curtained alcove just off the Great Hall for the better part of an hour. Whenever Terry walked past without seeing her, her stomach contracted. Whenever she heard Hermione's voice, she longed to have her wand with her so she could curse the girl to pieces. This made Blaise sick. It wasn't the anger, which she was used to, but the pain. It was corrosive and nauseating. She wondered how much longer she could take this.  
  
Suddenly the curtain was pushed aside and someone burst into the alcove. Blaise gave a cry of surprise. "Oh, sorry," came a voice. "Didn't know anyone was in here."  
  
"Damn it, Weasley!" she exploded.  
  
"Sorry," Ron said again. Blaise glared at him and retreated even further back, in the shadowy corner of the alcove. He looked at her thoughtfully for almost a full minute, then said something that she had not at all expected: "D'you want to dance?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said," Ron began again, with a grin lurking around his face, "would. you. like. to. dance?"  
  
Blaise blinked very hard. She had not misheard him. "You're a Weasley and a Gryffindor," she said, and in her surprise forgot to put venom in her voice. "What makes you think I'd dance with you?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," said Ron calmly. "You just looked rather lonely, that's all."  
  
She stared at him, then looked away. She didn't like the idea that he had noticed her, thought she looked lonely, and taken pity on her. It was contemptible.  
  
But then again, wasn't it more contemptible that she, Blaise Zabini, the product of a long line of beautiful, intelligent, powerful Malfoys, should spent the night of her graduation hidden, spying on her classmates and resenting their happiness? Wasn't it a pity that nobody would see the beauty that Draco had tried to hard to bring out? If she chose to say in that alcove alone, she would be behaving like a coward. She was many things, but not that.  
  
A hateful, begrudging, judgmental bitch, but never a coward.  
  
"Fine," she said.  
  
Ron grinned, and took a step toward the curtain.  
  
"No," she added quickly," let's stay here."  
  
"Alright," said Ron, raising a curious eyebrow. He clasped her hand. Blaise, with an indignant yelp, reflexively yanked it back. Now Ron raised both eyebrows. "If you know of a way to dance without touching, do share your knowledge," he said.  
  
"Sorry," she said, and took Ron's hands in hers roughly. They began to move in time to the music, Ron looking amused, Blaise holding her breath.  
  
"Who were you glaring at?" he asked suddenly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I saw you a while ago and you were glaring at someone. Who?"  
  
"None of your fucking business," she snarled at him.  
  
"Whoa, calm down. so much anger can't be good for your blood pressure," he joked. Then, when she didn't reply, she said, "You know, if you just could let go of the hostility you feel toward me and my family and my House, we might actually have a civil conversation."  
  
"What would we talk about? Quidditch?" She made the word and its meaning sound absurd. At that moment the song ended, and Blaise, relieved, pulled away from him. "There you go, that's over. Thank you very much, Weasley, I had a marvelous time. Do go away and don't come back."  
  
But Ron did not move; nor had he let go of her left hand. "We might as well dance to the next one," he said. "We only had half a dance, really."  
  
Blaise bit her lip. "For some strange reason she found she didn't mind the idea of him staying as much as she thought she would. But the song that had just begun was much slower.  
  
"Well?" said Ron.  
  
She remembered something Draco had said. "Are you afraid?" Of course he'd only said that to irritate her, but. She put her hands on Ron's shoulders. What a pity that my first real slow dance is to be wasted on a Weasley. Then Ron put his arms around her waist, and she caught her breath and hoped there wasn't enough light in the alcove for him to see her flushed cheeks.  
  
"So what should we talk about?" said Ron.  
  
"Why should we talk about anything?" she replied. "I don't hear anyone else engaged in conversation right now."  
  
"No, but that's because everyone out there is necking right now."  
  
Blaise turned the same colour as a boiled lobster.  
  
"And I reckon if I tried to do that to you, you'd have my head."  
  
She made a choked noise. "Do you mean you'd like to, though?"  
  
"No! I was just trying to be funny."  
  
"Well, don't. Humor is not your forte," she snapped, and wished that he hadn't been so quick in saying no, or that he hadn't said it so emphatically. Was she not desirable at all, then?  
  
Ron spun her around in silence. As they passed the gap in the curtains that separated them from the rest of the world, she peeked out and saw Terry Boot waltzing by with pretty-in-pink Mandy Brocklehurst from Ravenclaw, and she sighed inwardly.  
  
Ron looked at her and saw many different emotions darken her eyes. Anger, sadness, grief, self-pity. Anger again. He knew, of course; he had heard the rowboat story from Lavender, and had seen Terry Boot go by. It seemed very strange to him that anybody should have to suffer so much over something like that - even Blaise Zabini. She's not a bad sort, when she tries. And, being Ron, being sweet and not the sort of person who could sit there and watch other people hurting, he wanted to do something to help her. A cheering charm? I don't have my wand with me.  
  
She turned her face back to his. She had somehow managed to make the jumble of emotions in her eyes look like mere irritation. It was nothing short of amazing. And Ron, friendly, wandless and naïve, acting on a purely instinctive desire to make her feel better, leaned toward Blaise and kissed her soundly on the mouth.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry lay on his back on the grass, with a very content Draco beside him. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so peaceful and alive. His every pore was acutely aware of the boy who sat half-curled up on his chest. Life is good.  
  
"So we're okay, Harry, right?"  
  
"No, Dray, we're a far way from 'okay'." A shadow crept back into Draco's eyes at that, so Harry added: "But step by step, we'll get to 'okay'."  
  
"Good." Draco breathed a sigh of relief, and his hand wormed its way under Harry's collar, resting on his neck, where his fingers could feel Harry's steady pulse. "I love you. I'm not just saying that."  
  
"I know," said Harry. He craned his neck and kissed Draco on the cheek.  
  
"And I want to spend the rest of my life with you," said Draco a bit desperately. "You've got to spend this summer at my place, love."  
  
Harry hesitated. His memories of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were, after all, far from pleasant.  
  
"You can't mean you want to go back to those barbaric Muggle relatives of yours?"  
  
"No, of course not," said Harry slowly.  
  
"Then it's settled. We've got a Quidditch pitch in our backyard," said Draco, and then added in Harry's ear: "I love you." in such a low, sweet voice that it nearly sent Harry's lungs on fire.  
  
"Oh, alright then. The Quidditch pitch is what really sold me."  
  
"So it wasn't the prospect of spending the whole summer with little old me that got you to agree?"  
  
"M'afraid not," said Harry so seriously that both of them burst out with laughter. When Draco laughed, his chest shook quite pleasantly against Harry's and his breath, which smelt of spearmint and pumpkin juice, danced across Harry's face.  
  
"There's no reason we shouldn't be happy together."  
  
"If you learn to think with your brain and not your dick."  
  
"My dick's made some of the best decisions of my life," protested Draco. "You think my fucking brain told me, 'go get into Potter's pants'?" He smirked.  
  
Harry laughed and pulled Draco down on top of him, and kissed him hard. Draco kissed him back very eagerly, clasping his hands at the small of Harry's back.  
  
Harry pulled away, dazed. "I'd forgotten how you kiss," he said.  
  
"Let me remind you."  
  
"No - no, Draco, hang on. I'd just like to know one thing?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Why did you - um, want to 'get into my pants'?"  
  
Draco sighed, and pillowed his head on Harry's shoulder. He made a childish, soft sort of sniffling noise, then said, "I never expected to fall in love with you. At the very beginning, I saw it all as a game. a way to bring you down."  
  
Harry had suspected this, or something like it, but it still hurt to hear it. "I hope your perspective's changed since then?"  
  
"Of course it has," said Draco very softly, and he kissed Harry's neck. He loved the skin there, the place where Harry's outdoorsy Quidditch tan met the paler skin. Draco had loved to mark that border with his teeth before, and he did so now, nipping gently at Harry's shoulder. "You have a very interesting body, Mr Potter. Do you know that?"  
  
"Yours isn't so bad, either," said Harry, trying to swallow down the moans that were building up at the base of his throat. "Your ass is especially nice."  
  
"Ah yes, my ass. Always popular with crowds, it is." He traced a shimmering path from Harry's collarbone to his chin with his tongue.  
  
"You don't have to tell me. I know." Harry moved his hands across Draco.  
  
"My my my. aren't we getting a little carried away? Ooh - do that again."  
  
"No, I don't think I will," said Harry slowly. "I think I'll stop right now before we go too far and start fucking on the grass."  
  
"You're such a tease!" exclaimed Draco with some disappointment.  
  
"I learned from the best," smirked Harry. "Don't worry. if I'm coming to stay at your manor, you'll have all summer to fuck me raw."  
  
"Did you have to be so explicit? I'm all turned on now."  
  
"Oh, how sad." With a devious grin, Harry 'accidentally' rubbed his leg against Draco's crotch.  
  
"You could at least give me a blow-job," moaned Draco. "Behind those trees, no one would see."  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up," said Harry, and he kissed Draco again to keep him from talking.  
  
* * *  
  
After three more dances Hermione was quite out of breath. "Okay, stop," she said to Padma. "I'm getting all sweaty."  
  
"Ooh, I like the sound of that," laughed Padma.  
  
Hermione stuck out her tongue at her. "Could you get me a drink?"  
  
"But of course. Pumpkin juice?"  
  
"If you don't mind," said Hermione, and she gave Padma a kiss on the tip of her nose.  
  
"Do I ever?" Padma chuckled. "I'll be right back." She walked off, toward one of the many house-elves that carried trays covered in magical hors- d'oeuvres or drinks, and wondered whether Hermione, as president of S.P.E.W, was indignant about the use of house-elves as waiters.  
  
There was someone else getting drinks. "Hey, Terry," said Padma without thinking. For her, six years of friendship and some months of dating outbalanced half a year of utter hatred.  
  
He turned to her, looking horrified, and narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"  
  
"Erm." Padma paled. "Don't tell me you're still mad because of - ?"  
  
"Because you destroyed my happiness?" Terry completed, with a voice like glass shards on concrete.  
  
"That was months ago! Get over it!"  
  
"That's easy for you to say," Terry sneered. "You got the girl."  
  
"What?"  
  
"There are plenty of pretty, open-minded girls at Hogwarts - "  
  
"So date them!"  
  
" - why couldn't you have gone after them?"  
  
"You should try to get over this. Terry," said Padma coldly. "Otherwise you'll spend many, many years of your life in therapy. And that would be such a pity, because you could be spending that time doing something that would be useful to the world, like building a statue of Hermione entirely made out of old chewing gum and lint from your belly-button."  
  
"You're just like your sister! You think people are little dolls who exist solely to amuse you..."  
  
"That is not true!" Padma forced herself to speak calmly. "Leave Parvati out of this, and - and stop making it sound like I kidnapped Hermione and took her to my hidden lair and forced her to become my fucking love slave, or something! She wants to be with me!"  
  
"But WHY?"  
  
"Maybe she loves me more than she loved you," said Padma, and it was only out of pity that she added the 'maybe'.  
  
"There's no reason for that!"  
  
"I love her more than you did!"  
  
"You have no idea how much I love her!"  
  
"It's a strange sort of love, then, let me tell you that! You weren't even willing to fight for her! That's why you lost her - you locked yourself in your room and just mooned about instead of trying to get her back, like a pathetic weak coward! And if you really loved her then you'd want her to be happy no matter what, no matter who she's with! And. just look at yourself now. you're picking a fight with me. Do you have any idea how childishly you're behaving?"  
  
"And do you have any idea how much you hurt me, both of you?"  
  
"About as much as you hurt Zabini!" Padma snapped.  
  
The blood rushed from Terry's burning cheeks. "What d'you mean?"  
  
"You set her up to think you were going to ask her out, and then you tell her you're in love with another girl?"  
  
"Not that it's any of your business, but I apologized earlier, and she wouldn't accept it."  
  
"Of course she wouldn't! Nobody would've - not even your precious Hermione." Padma suddenly remembered what she had come there for, and grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice from the tray. She then realized that the house-elf carrying said tray had been listening in the whole time. It sniggered squeakily when she glared at it. "I don't have anymore time to waste with you - I've got a girlfriend waiting," she added waspishly to Terry, and swept off.  
  
"What on earth took you so long?" asked Hermione when she got back to her. "You need twenty minutes to get a glass of juice?"  
  
"I ran into Ye Bad Ho* on the way," said Padma coolly, "and he gave me a fearful talking-to."  
  
"You must have provoked him," said Hermione. She drained her glass. "Dear god, this tastes weird. Some bastard must've spiked the ju - " She broke off and hiccoughed loudly, and several purple bubbles floated out of her mouth.  
  
The bubbles, amusing as they were, did not make Padma smile. "He goaded me, and I really don't feel like talking about it. Let's go someplace else."  
  
Arm in arm, they left the Great Hall - Hermione kept hiccoughing, and her bubbles were now robin's-egg blue - and sat down on a stone bench in the rose garden. "What should we talk about, then?"  
  
"About what we're going to do this summer," said Padma, "because I can't possibly be expected to survive three months without you."  
  
"More than three months. this is our last school year, so we might not see each other in the fall."  
  
"Don't remind me," Padma groaned. "Think I could come see you for a week or two or ten?"  
  
Hermione turned her face to the sky. "Boy, that would really be letting the cat out of the bag."  
  
"You haven't told your parents yet?"  
  
"Erm, no," Hermione admitted, swallowing air - she remembered that her and Padma's first serious fight had been over something rather like this.  
  
"Neither have I. I have a feeling it won't be jolly. Then again, you never know, my parents might surprise me. but my mum will be utterly disappointed that I won't be able to 'make a fine match' with one of her socialite friend's divorced sons."  
  
Hermione snorted, tangerine bubbles shooting out of her nose, and squeezed Padma's hand. "Don't worry, it won't be that bad." Her arm found its way around Padma's waist.  
  
Surprisingly, the other girl pulled away. "As much as I think I would've enjoyed that. d'you think your parents consider you old enough to move out?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because then we move into a flat together."  
  
Hermione smiled. "I'd like that."  
  
Padma smiled back. "Now that we've got that settled. how about you kiss me again?"  
  
* * *  
  
"What the hell was that, Weasley?"  
  
"I - er, don't know." Ron winced. "Please don't hit me."  
  
Blaise stared up at him uncertainly, with her hands on her hips. She closed her eyes - she was quite overwhelmed - and when she opened them again something quite surprising happened.  
  
She looked at Ron and saw him as he really was. As himself, not as a Weasley or a Gryffindor. He was just a boy, now, standing in front of her looking exceedingly apprehensive, a boy who, although he didn't fit her ideal of a handsome young man, was certainly not ugly; and he was smart and even funny when one gave him a chance.  
  
And he had kissed her.  
  
"I'm not sure I liked that, Ron," she said silkily.  
  
He turned very pale beneath his freckles, and didn't even notice that she hadn't called him 'Weasley', or that she didn't pronounce his name with contempt anymore.  
  
"Perhaps," she continued, "you should do it again so that I can make up my mind." She registered the stunned look on his face before she closed her eyes and reached up to kiss him on his half-open mouth.  
  
* * *  
  
Half an hour later, Harry and Draco were happily canoodling on the grass between the trees when something rather frightening occurred to Draco. He pulled away from Harry and leapt to his feet, brushing twigs off his trousers.  
  
"Where are you going?" asked Harry, looking up at him with curious eyes.  
  
"I just remembered Blaise," Draco explained. "D'you realize what kind of shit she might have gotten into while we've been. "  
  
"Um," said Harry. "Do you. often think of your cousin when we're. ?"  
  
"No, of course not!" said Draco. "Ugh. But she's been without supervision for." He paused, reached into his pocket, and drew out the gold chain of his pocketwatch. "Nearly two hours! Do you know how much damage she's probably caused by now?"  
  
"I bet at least ten people have been cursed," said Harry darkly. "Damn Blaise for always spoiling my fun."  
  
"I'm going to go check up on her. I'll be right back."  
  
"You might want to button your shirt back up," said Harry. "Or some people - " he gave a loud cough which sounded like 'Pansy!' - "might get the wrong idea."  
  
Draco stuck his tongue out at him, repeated, "I'll be right back," and walked off.  
  
He found Blaise within minutes. She was walking alone among the rosebushes just outside the Great Hall. For a moment Draco feared that she had taken a leaf out of Filch's book and decided to throw hexes at the couples among the roses., but then he realized she was merely taking a walk. He quickened his pace and caught up with her. "Hey."  
  
"Hello," said Blaise. "I trust your business went well?"  
  
"Yep," said Draco, and he smiled to himself, remembering...  
  
"Good."  
  
"Good? But you hate Harry."  
  
"Yes, I do." She shrugged. "But you were miserable without the spineless worm, and now you're happy again, so."  
  
"So, I left you all by yourself for two hours. What did you do during that time? Did you stay away from trouble?"  
  
"Do I ever?" Blaise smirked.  
  
"Oh gods," said Draco. "Please tell me you didn't hurt anyone?"  
  
A sudden image came to Blaise's head, of Ron wincing and grinning at the same time after she'd bitten through his lip. She turned red and hoped the moonlight wasn't bright enough for Draco to see. "Nope," she said.  
  
"Then what have you been up to?"  
  
She turned even redder.  
  
"Come on, spill," he said, and poked her in the ribs with his finger.  
  
"Let's just say," she began slowly, "that if I told you now that I've never been properly kissed before, I'd be lying."  
  
Draco stopped in his tracks. "What?"  
  
"You heard me." Blaise grinned very widely indeed.  
  
"With who?" Draco cried.  
  
"Wouldn't you like to know!" She could feel her stomach flipping about like a fish on dry land at the thought of what Draco would say if he knew she'd spent nearly an hour snogging Ron Weasley.  
  
"Well." he said, clearly overwhelmed by her news. "Well. I'm happy for you."  
  
"I'm happy for me too," said Blaise. "I. enjoyed myself at this ball far more than I thought I would."  
  
"Me too," said Draco softly, looking back to the trees where Harry was waiting for him to return.  
  
"And I have a feeling this will be a far better summer than I was expecting," she went on.  
  
"Me too," he said again.  
  
And they both looked up at the sky, their identical grey eyes reflecting the silver-pinprick stars, and grinned in happy anticipation of what could and what would happen in the months to come.  
  
* * *  
  
To quote a hobbit: "I regret to announce this is the end.  
  
Yes, Crash and Burn is indeed over. That's a bit hard to believe at first, isn't it? There where times when I couldn't see any sort of end to it, and gods, when I remember some of the things I was thinking of writing, and where they would have taken this if I had. But for a plotless story which was considered an experiment by its author, it's done pretty well, no? It's been a long, exhausting, fun ride, kiddies, and of course there are people I'd like to thank.  
  
Lib, who I think was the one who suggested I write, who never told me how horrible the first chapter was, who was the first to call Terry 'The Bootboy' and who said Hermione should be with Padma;  
  
Ivy, who had to listen to me gripe;  
  
SophieB, who provided the most constructive reviews I ever got, and who mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth a few chapters ago;  
  
The other Sophie B - Sophie Black, whom nobody should ever mess with because she won't hesitate to PULL YOUR HAIR TILL YOUR SCALP BLEEDS (not joking; my head still hurts like hell);  
  
Serenity, who kissed my feet in one of her reviews;  
  
Gwen, Bondagechic, Mandraco, Soulsister, ChibiWhiteFerret, VelvyJessy;  
  
and finally everyone who remembers C&B in its very early days when it was called Bob the Super Tomato Boy (not kidding about that either).  
  
I might not start the sequel for a few months. But heeey, wipe that tear from your eye! I'll be writing other things - prequels and unrelated-to-C&B fics and maybe even LOTR fics. And for all the observant ones among you who wonder whether Blaise is a Malfoy or a Zabini (or why I made her a boy when Blaise is a guy's name): all of your questions will be answered in the Blaise!biofic I'm writing. Whee!  
  
*starts to weep*  
  
I luv you all very very much.  
  
GutterBunny 


End file.
